Echoes and Memories
by starrrz
Summary: The obligatory take on what happens after the Chosen One. Vlad thinks he has it bad but, for once, Robin isn't just over-reacting.
1. Chapter 1

"I think that's one nil to me." Ian smirked all across his face as the nurse walked away, her uniform pulling tight across her swaying hips.

Paul scowled and shoved his brother into the van eliciting an outraged, "Argh! Mind my leg!"

Robin clambered in next, clinging to the headrest of the seat in front as he maneuvered past the cast on Ian's leg. That was the problem with fruit costumes; they weren't designed with choreography in mind. Chloe followed, her carrot costume still bundled in her arms. Kurt was the last in, still thanking Mr. Branagh profusely for letting him stay the night as the van made its way out of Stokley General's car park.

Mrs. Branagh twisted round in her seat, smiling cheerily at them.

Robin pulled a face. What was there to be happy about? They had just spent four hours at A&E. And that had been the highlight of the night. By this time tomorrow everyone at Stokely Grammar would have seen video footage of him doing the Pineapple Cha Cha Slide. The memory of Tommo Watson grinning as he captured it all on his mobile phone made him scowl harder.

"Aw, come on, you lot." Mrs. Branagh said, singling Robin out for particular encouragement. "Cheer up. It might never happen!"

* * *

"What happened?" Vlad asked, squinting against the candlelight.

"Vlad?" The Count called in excitement. "Vladdy? Are you awake?" Vlad managed a weak 'yes' and the Count crowed in glee. "I knew you could do it! It's your Dracula blood, the essence of evil flowing through your veins!"

The night's events flooded through Vlad's consciousness and he shifted experimentally. The tension in his arms, chained above his head to the wall, had him grimacing in pain. This was Ingrid's work, it had to be.

"Your sister did that," confirmed the Count. "The ungrateful wench will be sorry when I'm free of this cage. I've been calling for that imbecile Renfield. When I get my hands on him I'll wrench his useless head from his spine and –"

"Dad."

"Use it as a paper –"

"Dad! He's a _breather_!" At the Count's look of incomprehension Vlad sighed. "I told them to forget."

They both fell quiet, the silence quickly becoming uncomfortable and oppressive. Vlad squirmed, trying to relieve the strain on his arms. He thought longingly of Robin. If only he had someway of contacting him, of making him come to the castle… an idea formed.

"Zoltan!"

* * *

"_There's a stain on my hand and it's red._

_Oh my God, am I losing it!_

_I can't help what I've done or I've said._

_It's the button I push_."

Robin jumped, the blare breaking through his comfortable pre-sleep haze. Leaning over the edge of the bed he scrabbled for his phone. Squinting at the caller display his heart started pounding in his chest, excitedly he jammed the mobile to his ear,

"Ingrid?"

"Robin?"

"Oh, Vlad." Robin sank back against his pillows in disappointment. Sulkily he asked, "What do you want? It's late."

"You have to help me!"

Robin glanced at his illuminated watch face – 4am – and sighed, "I told you before, Vlad. Nightmares can't hurt you. Just, I dunno, put the light on or something."

"Robin, I'm not joking!" Vlad's tone changed, making Robin sit up and pay attention. "I need you to come to the castle. _Please_, Robin."

Outside heavy rain was lashing against his window, wind howling through the dark empty streets. In spite of it Robin was already pulling his shoes on and searching for his coat.

"Give me ten minutes."

* * *

"Elizabeth. _Elizabeth_!"

"What now?" Mrs. Branagh mumbled sleepily.

"Did you hear that? There's someone downstairs!"

"Of course there is, Ian's on the sofa." They had all decided it would be easier for Kurt to have Ian's bed, and to settle Ian in the living room for the night. He had been irritable and snappy and refused to even attempt the stairs with his cast. Mrs. Branagh reached a hand out to pat her husband's arm, "Now go back to sleep."

Mr Branagh lay back down but it was a while before he stopped listening out for the potential intruder.

* * *

Robin burst through the door, dripping wet and panting for breath. Looking up he surveyed the room with wide eyes. Vlad's dad was sat on the floor, surrounded by glowing bars. It reminded him of the light sabres in Star Wars, on the one occasion his own dad had forced him to sit through it. Then his gaze fell upon Vlad and he rushed forward to help him, tugging uselessly at the restraints around Vlad's wrists.

"Excuse me for saying so, Master Robin, but it will require considerably more strength than you possess to free him in that manner."

"Vlad." Robin squeaked, jerking away from the wolf's snout. "It's talking. It just talked. Vlad!"

"Of course it talks!" The Count bellowed, his fangs descending and his game face flashing in frustration. "Now get me out of this dratted cage!"

"Robin." Vlad spoke carefully, "Look at me." It took a moment, but Robin managed to wrench his eyes away from first Zoltan, and then the Count and meet Vlad's gaze. Vlad concentrated; satisfied Robin was under his influence when his eyes went blank and glassy. "Ignore my command to forget everything. Vampires _do_ exist. You remember everything." He snapped his fingers although, with his hands numb and crushed against the wall, not without difficulty.

Robin blinked in confusion as the fog of hypnosis lifted. Once gone he glared at him accusingly, "_What_ is going on!"

Vlad didn't get chance to answer.

"Branagh," Ingrid smirked as every eye in the room fell upon her. "Isn't it obvious? I'm about to dust my useless family and take my rightful position as Countess Dracula. But first," she advanced towards Robin and Vlad fought against the chains, "I'm going to give you what you've always wanted."

She licked at her fangs, eyes turning black as Robin backed away towards the wall. She flitted in front of him, grasping him by the shoulders. "They always say you should be careful what you ask for, don't they? Don't be scared. It won't hurt… me." Grinning she lowered her face to Robin's neck and Vlad felt a surge of _something_ go through him, and the next instant he was sprawled on the floor, the snapped length of chain still attached to the cuffs around his wrists.

The noise distracted Ingrid, and in seconds he was on his feet and pulling her away from Robin, growling, "Don't. Touch. Him."

Ingrid scowled at him and he held her gaze for a long moment until Robin managed a quiet, "Thanks, Vlad."

Vlad turned to give him a reassuring smile but the sight of Robin rubbing nervously at his neck made it difficult for him to do anything other than stare, transfixed. Vlad swallowed, dimly aware he was salivating. Distracted, he released his grip on Ingrid's arm, moving closer to Robin.

"Vlad?"

He reached out and took hold of Robin's hand, removing it from his neck, and holding it at his side. He brought his other hand up to Robin's neck, trailing his fingers softly across the pale skin. He'd always thought, albeit not vocally because that would be a really stupid idea, that Robin had a beautiful neck.

"_Vlad?_"

Robin sounded panicked now and Vlad rubbed his thumb across his hand, trying to comfort him. Ingrid was right, it wouldn't hurt. He wouldn't hurt Robin, not much anyway. He just wanted to taste him, feel the swell of Robin's blood against his tongue. His eyelids drooping, Vlad lowered his head.

"_Vlad!"_

Robin was trembling and Vlad moved his hand round to cradle the back of the other boy's head. His fangs were tingling in anticipation, the first scrape against Robin's throat sending shudders through him. He closed his eyes and opened his mouth to bite, only to shut it around air. Robin was limp in his arms.

* * *

"Always knew he was a little coward," Ingrid sneered as Vlad lowered him carefully to the floor," fainting at the first touch." She shook her head.

Vlad bit at his lip, fighting the urge to cry, and trying to steady the violent trembling of his hands. It had happened. He was only fourteen and it had already happened. He was a monster.

"Vladdy?" The Count reached a tentative hand through the gaps in the bar to touch his arm. "Can it be true? My son a true vampire at fourteen." Vlad clenched his eyes shut and nodded. The hand left him and the Count punched the air in triumph. "Wait 'til your cretinous grandparents hear about this!"

"Hear about what?" Ingrid gave him a dismissive once over. "The fact their precious grandson is in _tears_ because he almost bit a breather? They'll be _so_ impressed."

The Count shot her a nasty glare. Vlad turned to look at her sharply, an angry retort on the tip of his tongue when, for the first time, he took in her blood spattered clothes. The vivid red streak across her cheekbone forced him to look away. Half of him desperately wanted to claw at it, to feed, the other half wanted to be sick.

"Where have you been?"

"I," Ingrid crouched down next to him, smiling with a touch of madness in her eyes, "have begun my reign." She reached into her cloak pocket and took out a red bundle, laying it across Robin's chest. He could see it was newspaper. Blood soaked newspaper.

Ingrid grinned at him manically, unwrapping it carefully. Vlad pressed a hand to his mouth, struggling not to heave, as its contents were revealed.

"Heart of the blood line. I'll bring him back and we'll rule together. _Forever_."

Vlad looked at her in shock. She had killed someone. Actually killed someone. The worst thing was the certain knowledge whose heart that was. Shaking his head he tried to make Ingrid see sense, "He's dust Ingrid! You can never bring him back, you know that. You need bones not dust!"

"Master Vladimir is correct." Zoltan added. Vlad wished he would learn when to keep his observations to himself.

"Shut up!" Ingrid growled at both of them, hastily rewrapping the heart and pocketing it. Vlad didn't dare to look at the bloody stain it had left on Robin's chest for longer than a second. "What would _you_ know about it!"

She got to her feet, cloak swirling around her.

"Where are you going?"

"Wherever I please." Ingrid spat and made to flit. Vlad grabbed hold of her wrist and grimaced as the unfamiliar lurching began.

* * *

Robin sniffed. He could smell burning. It was close by. He shifted; it was hot too. It was as if something were on fire. He shifted again. It was like _he_ was on fire. He was on his feet in seconds, tearing his coat off and stamping on it to put out the flames.

"Thank Beelzebub for that," The Count said, blowing at his fingertips, "I thought you were just going to burn to death and I'd be stuck in this blasted cage forever."

Robin scowled at the Count and shrugged back into his ruined coat – the castle was _freezing_. He felt like an idiot, only swooning girls without a brain fainted at the first touch of fangs to their neck. A quick swipe of his fingers against his own neck confirmed his fears. Vlad _hadn't_ bitten him.

"Where's Vlad gone?"

"How am I supposed to know?" The Count snapped irritably, voice rising into a thunderous bellow, "I'm trapped in a cage!"

"Right, yeah." Robin looked away and rolled his eyes before kneeling down and inspecting the control disk. Feeling along the edge his fingers hit an indentation which he pressed. The bars hissed and flickered once, twice, and then disappeared, shooting back down into the disk.

"Finally." The Count stood and stretched, taking long strides to pose against the moonlit window. "My time in incarceration has taught me a valuable lesson."

Robin just raised an eyebrow and concentrated on picking at the burnt sleeve of his jacket. His mam would go spare when she saw it. He'd end up having to wear that anorak his dad had given him for Christmas. The thought made him shudder.

"Yes," the Count went on, "over the centuries a vampire as great and," the Count preened, "as handsome as myself –"

A loud wailing could be heard through the open window and the Count frowned in irritation.

" – finds himself in his fair share of – "

The wailing got louder.

" – dangerous situations. But, to – "

Sighing in exasperation the Count moved to the door, wrenching it open to reveal a sobbing Renfield.

"There you are! Well get in, I don't pay for you to stand around doing nothing."

"You pay me?" Renfield asked in obvious wonderment.

"Well, no." The Count waved a hand dismissively and Robin snorted. He had always suspected as much. "But, _I_ am your master and when I say do something," he leaned in closer, the better to intimidate Renfield, "you do it."

Renfield scurried past, head bowed and 'yes master'-ing all the way to the kitchen. The Count rubbed his hands together smugly, as if he had just achieved something great, and Robin shook his head in bemusement. It was no wonder Vlad was so weird.

* * *

"Get _off_ me!" Ingrid screamed, shoving at Vlad who clung to her stubbornly. "I need to bring him back!"

"You can't!" Vlad yelled back. "Alchemy doesn't work like that. It doesn't matter how many people you kill, he's not coming back!"

Ingrid finally broke free from his grip and jabbed a finger in his face, the ice cold rain lashing at both of them.

"But he has to," Ingrid hefted an already splintered slat from the park bench next to them, her wet hair clinging to her face with the movement, "and he will. You just think I'm not evil enough to do, don't you? You're wrong!" She swung it at him and Vlad dodged, only narrowly missing being whacked across the temple, staring back at his sister in shock.

"Will wouldn't want you to do this, Ingrid." Vlad spoke hurriedly, before Ingrid could swing for him again, knowing all the while that vengeance would be exactly what Will's vampire self would have wanted. "It'll be on your conscience forever. You know it will."

Ingrid moved back towards the water, the focal point of Stokely Park. "I'm an evil vampiress. I. Don't. Have. A. Conscience!" A swan, disturbed by their yelling, hissed at her and Ingrid, as if to emphasise her point, brought the heavy wood down on its head.

Vlad watched in shock. Ingrid looked back at him defiantly for a moment before her gaze flickered back to the bloody mess strewn across the path. The wood dropped from her fingers and Vlad was finally stirred into action as she followed it, sobbing. "He's gone, Vlad. Gone."

Vlad hesitated for a moment, unsure how Ingrid would react, before following his instincts anyway and pulling her into a hug. "I know." She clung to him and Vlad wondered what they were going to do. They wouldn't be able to cover up Mrs. Clarke's death, not if the amount of blood Ingrid was covered in was anything to go by. He had met her once. Will and Ingrid had had to hypnotise her into believing Will had gone back to live with her daughter, Will's mother. His mother, Will had said, would never even notice he had gone.

"We're going to have to leave Stokely." Ingrid sniffed into his shoulder, but didn't release her hold on him, "The police are going to ask questions. They'll want to know where Will is." Vlad clenched his eyes shut, grief washing over him, for both Will and himself.

"It's okay." He eventually managed to croak. "It's going to be okay."

It wasn't okay. His sister was a murderer and he was a newly paid up member of the blood sucking monster club. Nothing was ever going to be okay again.

* * *

"Renfield," the Count ordered from his throne, "clean this place up. I'm tired of looking at it." Robin winced as the Count motioned at Will's ashes, pulling his feet up on to the chair and resting his chin on his knees. Every time he thought of the look on Will's face as the light hit him it made him feel ill. He steadfastly refused to let the thought of Vlad suffering the same fate take root.

"Renfield, don't bother." Robin jumped as Vlad appeared a few yards away. "We're leaving."

"Leaving?" The Count asked incredulously. He looked at Ingrid suspiciously but she turned her face away, however not fast enough for Robin to miss the streaks of mascara down her pale cheeks.

"Yes, leaving. You know, disappearing, taking off, getting away. We'll be back in Transylvania by sunrise."

Before the Count could say anything Robin was on his feet. "You can't! Vlad, you can't go!" He didn't know what he'd do without Vlad. Because, while he might not be the best at showing it at times. Or, ever. Vlad _was_ his best mate, and life had sucked before he had turned up on his doorstep.

Vlad turned to look at him and, suddenly, Robin felt his cheeks flame with embarrassment. Vlad was a _vampire_ now. He would be lucky if Vlad ever spoke to him again, let alone hang round Stokely just because he was the only friend Robin had ever had. To his surprise however Vlad went straight to him, ignoring the Count's indignant protesting, and spoke softly.

"I don't _want_ to go." Vlad met his gaze, his eyes sad and sincere. "But I don't have any choice. You have to understand that."

"But," Robin continued numbly, the words tumbling from his lips, "You're my best friend, Vlad." He trailed off lamely, wishing the Count and Ingrid weren't watching them both intently. Vlad looked as miserable as he felt, and Robin found his throat aching with the effort of not crying.

"Touching as this isn't," Ingrid ground out, "The sun is going to be up soon. Get on with it!"

* * *

Vlad took a calming breath, trying not to freak out about the fact he really didn't need to, and ignored his sister. Robin looked like he might cry and it was taking all of Vlad's self-control not to just fling his arms around him. To tell Robin he would never willingly be separated from him. Instead he wrung his hands nervously, the cuffs finally off his wrists, and wished he had more time.

"Are-" Robin started, voice strained, "are you going to come back?"

"Of course!"

Robin nodded, trying – and failing – to smile at him. Vlad gave in and shifted closer to the other boy, doing his best to ignore his dad's look of disgust as he touched his fingertips to Robin's cheek. Robin stared back at him, dark eyes wide with shock and Vlad made a decision, knowing this could well be the last chance he'd ever get.

"As soon as I can, I'll come back. I promise."

Before Robin had chance to reply, or he had chance to lose his nerve, Vlad leant forward and pressed their lips together. It was awkward and chaste, and Robin was frozen in shock, but Vlad was beyond certain he'd never forget it. When he pulled back he caught Robin's gaze, before the other boy could give him _THE_ speech, and spoke as commandingly as he could given the circumstances,

"I'm sorry, Robin, but this is for your own protection. Vampires do _not_ exist. You did _not_ come here tonight; you will not remember what happened. Now you will go home and go back to bed. And, tomorrow," his voice caught. "Tomorrow, you will tell everyone that you've known we were leaving for weeks."

He snapped his fingers and Robin blinked and looked at him, unseeingly. He then turned and made his way to the door, his movements overly slow and controlled. Vlad swiped at his eyes angrily before facing his dad and Ingrid, silently daring them to say anything about what had just happened.

Finally, after a long tense moment, Ingrid picked up the travel bag she had hastily packed.

"Maggot breath can sort out the rest, we need to get a move on."


	2. Chapter 2

"I've put an extra blanket on your bed, Robin." At his look of confusion Mrs. Branagh elaborated, "I looked in on you earlier. You only had to say you were cold, I'm not an ogre!"

Mr. Branagh grinned and nudged Paul who grinned back. Mrs. Branagh chose to ignore it,

"You don't need to wear your coat to bed."

"Aw, mam, don't worry about Robin," Ian said around a mouthful of eggs and bacon. "He's got his own insulation, 'aven't he?" He puffed his cheeks out and it was all she could do to bite back her smile, Robin could get awfully sensitive about it.

"Yeah?" Robin hissed, scowling, "At least I don't look like someone hit me in the face with a cricket bat."

"You know what shocks me," Ian retorted, the pain in his leg still making him surly and irritable, "is the fact you haven't _crushed_ Vlad to death yet. Is that why he's leaving the country? Or is just so he doesn't 'ave to look at your ugly mug 24/7?"

Ian waved the letter, thanking them for their hospitality over the last year and half, which had been pushed through their letterbox that morning under Robin's nose. Robin looked murderous. Mrs. Branagh decided it was time to step in.

"Boys, come on, don't be like that." Casting Kurt an apologetic glance, she hoped he didn't think they were always like that, she added, "I was hoping that you could show your brother some gratitude, he's going to help Paul decorate Mrs. Clarke's back room for you."

"Since when?" Robin asked in horror.

"Since I said so."

Robin looked at Mr. Branagh for back-up but he just shrugged. Mrs. Branagh smiled to herself. He was well trained.

* * *

"The boy needs to be at the Academy!"

"_I_ will decide what is best for my son! Besides," the Count whined, sounding more six than six hundred. "He's the Chosen One, he doesn't need a bit of paper to tell him he's a vampire. They'll just fill his head with useless things like _ideal fang angles_ and _Latin_. I can teach him everything he needs to know!"

"You!" Krone thundered. "_You_ are not fit to be entrusted with the education of a zombie. No," her tone turned determined, "when his," there was a pause, "_bad habits_ were just an embarrassment I could, to an extent, overlook it. But now – the boy is the future. As of this moment he is under _my_ care."

"I'll take you to the Council!"

"You just try!"

Vlad sat down heavily on the edge of the coffin, wishing he had some way of drowning out the sound of their arguing in the next room. He didn't want to go to the Academy, they'd make him go peasant hunting and spend all day locked in a coffin.

He welcomed the distraction as Ingrid stomped her way up from the lower crypt and handed him a bottle, perching on the lip of the ornate casket opposite him. Vlad inspected it carefully,

"1348! Are you sure this won't just finish what the vampirism started?"

"Not the best, is it?" Ingrid shook her head, "Granny's too much of a cheapskate to buy anything decent, you know that."

Sighing, Vlad uncorked it anyway. It would have to be better than the feeling of crawling under his flesh, the growing desperation to _feed_. He grimaced, expecting it to taste horrid but… it was amazing. Better than anything he had ever tasted. Before he had chance to think about what it was he was drinking, the entire bottle was gone.

Ingrid sneered at him. "You must have been desperate if that tasted good." Sipping at her own bottle she peered at him appraisingly. "So," she started casually, "how long have you and Branagh been at it?"

"We're not!"

"Let me rephrase that. How long have you been dreaming, like the loser you are, of you and Branagh being at it?"

Vlad shrugged. Realising quickly that the silence was far worse than Ingrid mocking him, he said, "Couple of months." Ingrid raised an eyebrow and he was glad he couldn't blush. "A year. I don't know."

"You really are pathetic."

Vlad looked down at his hands. It was true.

* * *

"I can't believe Ingrid's gone." Paul said wistfully, looking up at the castle as they made their way to Mrs. Clarke's. Robin kept quiet, afraid he'd give entirely too much away if he said anything. Ian and Paul teased him all the time anyway. If they knew how upset he had been since Vlad had told him, just over a fortnight ago, that they were going back to Transylvania the twins would never leave him alone.

Crouching down to get the key from under the doormat, Paul scowled, "I bet that dickhead went with her. If he was as brilliant as she thinks he is, _he_ would 'ave found time to do this for _his_ nan."

There was something about that statement that felt off to Robin, but he couldn't put his finger on what it was. Shrugging it off he couldn't resist a snide, "Ingrid would never have gone out with you anyway."

"She wouldn't 'ave touched you either." Paul spat, unlocking the door. The look on his brother's face made Robin rethink gloating about that time Ingrid had kissed him. Paul shoved him inside then began calling, "Mrs. Clarke? It's Paul Branagh. You said to use the key?"

Dumping the paint by the door he led the way into the kitchen. Quietly he said, "She's deaf as a bat, that's why we've got to let ourselves in." Glancing around the room Paul pushed him back the way they'd just come, "Well, she ain't in here, is she? You look in the living room and I'll just nip upstairs, alright?"

Without giving him chance to reply Paul was already on his way up. Hesitantly Robin lifted a hand and knocked on the living room door, pressing his ear against it to try and pick out any sound of inhabitation. Nothing. He turned the handle and slowly pushed the door open, peering around the frame. "Mrs. Clarke?"

The curtains were drawn, the only light coming through chinks in the heavy drapes. He could just about make out the top of her head. "Mrs. Clarke?" Cautiously he stepped into the room, hoping she wouldn't be mad at him for waking her up. He had never quite forgotten the time she had called him a little hooligan for – accidentally – stepping on Mackintosh the Mongrel's tail. As if it was his fault the dog was insane!

There was no answer so he shuffled closer to the armchair. No sign of Mackintosh either. What he did see had him frozen to the spot, mouth working uselessly for a long moment before he finally managed to get any sound out.

"PAUL!"

* * *

"I think the younger boy's still in shock, Sir."

Gethin nodded his thanks to the young PC before making his way over to the family. He held out his warrant card and introduced himself, "Detective Inspector Gethin Turner. I understand you knew Mrs. Clarke?"

Mrs. Branagh nodded and pulled the boy, Robert or Robin, he forgot which, closer; he was shaking. Gethin couldn't blame the kid. It was the worst scene he had ever been called out to, and he had seen some pretty macabre things over the years. His older brother, Paul, so PC Damer had said, didn't look like he was faring too much better.

"When we moved here Enid used to pop round and give me a hand. The twins," Mrs. Branagh motioned at Paul, "were only babies then. I haven't seen so much of her lately, not with Will staying with her again."

"Will?"

"Her grandson." Mrs. Branagh put a hand to her mouth. "He doesn't even know yet."

* * *

"He was a better vampire than you'll ever be!"

"Ingrid, I don't think he meant –"

"Don't twist my words, Vladimir!" The Count snapped at him, never taking his eyes off Ingrid, "I meant exactly what I said: Good. Riddance. I only wish it had taken you with him!"

"You – you," Ingrid was incoherent with rage, the castle walls shaking as she clenched her fists. "You'll regret that. I'm going to see to it you cower at my feet."

She advanced towards her father, eyes black and fangs bared. Vlad shook his head; five minutes ago they had been sat, civilly – or as civilly as a group of vampires ever got - discussing whether or not he was going to the Academy: raising ruthless killer since 1117. Now she was threatening to stake their dad. Again.

Krone snapped her fingers impatiently. "Yes, yes, your father is an idiot. Do you want a place or not? It will be highly," she pursed her lips, "_irregular_ for a girl to attend but, in this instance, I believe they will make an exception."

Ingrid turned to stare at her incredulously. She glanced at Vlad, who put as much pleading into his own gaze as he could, before speaking,

"You can shove the lousy Academy! Do you really think I'm going to go and let myself be locked up just because Vladdy is too scared to go to school on his own?" Krone's expression grew strained, but she did not move back as Ingrid pressed ever closer. "_I_am not his nursemaid. _I_ am Countess Dracula. He might have the crown but it's _me_ you will learn to fear."

She snatched up the small casket on the table, Vlad presumed it contained Will's dust, and glowered at them all malevolently.

"Ingrid," Vlad started, torn between frustration and sympathy. "You said yesterday we'd sort this out together."

"I lied."

The moment she disappeared the Count clapped his hands together. "Well, there's that problem sorted."

Vlad just glared back at him. He was supposed to be the Chosen One, the vampire born to lead the revolution. Some chance, he thought bitterly. Even his own family didn't listen to a word he said.

* * *

"Robin?" Mr. Branagh peered round his son's doorframe, surprised to see the main light on rather than the usual gloom he associated with Robin's bedroom. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah." Robin's voice was strained and quiet, and Mr. Branagh got the impression he was anything but.

He edged into the room, shutting the door and sitting on the edge of Robin's bed. "Would you like to talk about it?"

"No."

Mr. Branagh bit his lip. How was he supposed to erase what Robin had had to see? Robin had barely said a word all afternoon, refused to eat and disappeared to his room as soon as Elizabeth had let go of him for longer than five minutes. The accusing way that PC had taken his statement hadn't helped, acting as if Robin were to blame. He shook his head; he had a good mind to make a complaint about the man.

Pressing a hand to Robin's shoulder he said softly, "Kurt said it always helps to talk. He's done a course on it you know." They had discussed it as he'd driven the man to his flat. He seemed nice enough, had even been a scout leader in Birmingham. You could always rely on a scout. "You don't need to keep it all to yourself."

Robin sniffed, dragging his attention back to the present. "I know. But not now. I just," he sniffed again, "want to go to sleep."

"Alright." He hovered for a moment before ruffling Robin's hair and standing up. He couldn't force Robin to deal with it before he was ready.

"Don't!" Mr. Branagh froze, hand halfway to the light switch. Robin looked embarrassed but continued, quietly, "Don't turn the light off."

Mr. Branagh smiled as reassuringly as he could and left the room. Once on the landing he let his brow crease in worry. Robin would get through this. He'd make sure of it.


	3. Chapter 3

_Lower Stokely Death: Forensic Team on Scene._

_Police are investigating today after a woman's body was found in Lower Stokely._

_Officers were called to Granada Street at 11:45am yesterday, the alarm raised by two local teenagers._

_The death of the woman, yet to be named, is being treated as suspicious. Her home has been cordoned off by police and forensic work is underway._

"Have you seen this?"

Eric Van Helsing peered over Mr. Perkins shoulder – maintaining a polite distance between himself and the man's unique smell – and read the report from his laptop screen. Perkins tapped at the 'two local teenagers' line.

"You reckon that's the Branagh boys? Julie said the boys' mother just rang to say they'd had a," he hooked his fingers in the air, "_shock_ yesterday. They live just round the corner."

Van Helsing shrugged and took a sip of his coffee, "Knowing the Branagh boys, they probably _did_ it."

Perkins snorted and minimised the screen. Van Helsing picked up his own bag and made for the staffroom doorway; Monday morning. It was enough to make a man weep.

* * *

"You looking at me, Branagh?"

Robin shook his head, averting his gaze. Richard Price, living to make his life a misery since Mrs. Parry's reception class, wasn't satisfied with that answer and crowded in on him, balancing one hand against the wall.

"You better hope you weren't. I heard what they said in form this morning - Vladdo's fucked off back to Tranniesville or wherever he's from. You know what that means, don't you?" Price turned to grin at his gang and Robin felt his heart rate rising as they smirked back at him. "It means," he leaned in threateningly, "that next time I want to give you a kicking, there's not going to be anyone there to stop me."

"Lads, what's going on here?"

"Nothing, Sir." Price gave him one last warning glare before pulling away from the wall, rejoining his friends.

"Robin?" Mr. Jenkins pressed.

Robin glanced first at his teacher, then at Price, before looking steadfastly at the floor.

"Nothing, Sir."

* * *

"Nut-job whoever did this, gotta be." PC Sharon Damer shook her head, shifting from foot to foot in an attempt to warm up.

PC Darren Brown sniffed, moving to let a white-suited forensics type into the house. "I still say it's this grandson, gone walkabout at a rather convenient time, hasn't he?"

"Really?" Sharon raised an eyebrow at her colleague, "The way you treated that poor little kid yesterday," she put on a deep voice, "'_you were in bed asleep, you say_.' Anyone would have thought he had just stuck the knife in under your very nose!"

"Not you and all!" Darren protested. He had had nothing but stick about it ever since. "He's a little brat. Had the entire force out for a bloody 'alien' sighting. Everyone thinks that just 'cos they look sweet and innocent when their parents are around they must be like that all the time. Well, trust me, that's not the way it works."

"Ooh, what side of the bed did Mr. Grumpy get out of this morning?"

"Give over." Darren suddenly stood taller, nudging Sharon. "Hey up, here comes the DI."

* * *

"Right then, lads. I want you to split up into pairs; fitness training today."

There were numerous groans of "Aw, Sir" as everyone set about complying with the order. Robin stood still. There was no point in trying to pair up, nobody would willingly work with him and he knew it. He wished Vlad were there. It didn't help that he had spent all night tossing and turning, the sight of Mrs. Clarke's mutilated body seared into the back of his eyelids.

He had always thought that something like that wouldn't affect him, it never did in horror films. But seeing it like that, knowing it wasn't just make-up or computer graphics, had been completely different. There had been blood everywhere, and Mrs. Clarke's face had been twisted into the most grotesque grimace. He took a shaky breath in an attempt not to freak out. If Vlad were there he'd know what to say to make him feel better, he was sure of it.

Mr. Jenkins surveyed the hall and sighed heavily. "Price, Davis, Watson! Can't you three count? Or is it that you just can't bear to be parted from each other? Keep it for the bedroom, lads." Sniggering broke out across the hall but Robin didn't dare. Price never made threats in jest. "Price, pair up with Branagh." Robin jerked his head up in horror.

Price seemed to be of a similar opinion, protesting, "But, Sir! He's a weirdo."

"Did I ask for your opinion? Just do it!"

Price glowered and huffed but made his way over to Robin, hissing, "Touch me and I'll break your neck" just quietly enough for Mr. Jenkins not to hear it.

"Get to it then!"

The lesson seemed to drag on forever to Robin. If Vlad were there they would have just made a show of attempting the circuit, talking and laughing and messing about whenever old Jenkins' back was turned. Robin knew that Vlad was perfectly capable of anything the PE department could throw at him, the fact that Vlad always pretended to find it difficult so he wouldn't feel like a total loser was just one of the many reasons why Vlad was top-class best friend material.

Price, on the other hand, had all the attributes of a first rate enemy and was making sure he did every activity to the letter. By the time they got to press-ups Robin felt like he was only moments away from collapsing and dying.

"Four."

Robin gritted his teeth, sweat dripping down his nose and off of his chin.

"Five."

His arms shook, his sweaty palms slipping on the mat.

"Si – ah." Robin looked up at Price through his wet fringe, panting heavily. Price shrugged, "Didn't bend your elbows properly, can't give you that one." He grinned nastily, "Try again."

He did, his every limb trembling violently.

"Six. Shouldn't really give you it, but," Price sniggered, "look at you. Can't do any better, can you?"

"Come on, Branagh!" Mr. Jenkins called. "Everyone else is waiting for you."

Robin wished the floor would open and swallow him whole as he felt every eye settle on him. "Seven." Price crowed gleefully.

"Try harder, Branagh! Do I need to nip next door and ask Miss. Jones if you can join the girls?"

He clenched his eyes shut, wishing he could shut out the sound of his classmates laughing just as easily. His arms felt like they were on fire but, somehow, he got down, now it was just getting back up. He dug his fingernails into the mat, grimacing with the strain.

It wasn't happening. His arms gave way and he collapsed to the mat, struggling to breathe. He squinted up at Mr. Jenkins who gazed back at him impassively, "At least you had a go, Branagh, that's the important thing."

Yeah, Robin thought bitterly as he attempted to get up, he'd just been totally humiliated in front of the entire class, but, at least he'd _had a go_.

* * *

"Someone special?" Mina grinned as she motioned at the phone in Ian's hand. He shrugged and grunted in response, causing her and Mrs. Branagh to share a knowing look.

Mrs. Branagh placed a mug of tea in front of Ian, patting his shoulder. "I still want to meet her mind, you should ask her round for tea."

"What?" Ian said, reaching for the biscuit tin, "Make her spend an evening with Mr. _Toilets Express_ and Freakboy? No thanks."

"Ian." Mrs. Branagh scolded as she sat down. "Your brother's not a freak. I don't want you saying things like that right now. He had an awful shock yesterday."

Ian scowled.

"How are they?" Mina asked, voice full of sympathy.

"Paul was really upset last night, but he didn't seem too bad this morning. Robin," she sighed, "I don't know. He wouldn't eat anything –"

"Which isn't like him at all," Ian cut in.

Mrs. Branagh frowned at him but continued, "And he shut himself up in his room as soon as he could. I didn't want them to go to school today but Graham insisted. He said the normality would be good for them."

"He's probably right."

"Don't know what you're worrying for," Ian said, hobbling to his feet and leaning heavily on the sideboard as he made for the living room. "I bet Robin loved it. All that blood and stuff."

"Sometimes," Mrs. Branagh said as she heard the TV being switched on, "I wish I could still put him over my knee."

Mina just grinned.

* * *

"Mr. Perkins?"

Perkins turned around to see a smartly-suited man and woman in his classroom doorway. He put his lunch down and stood up to speak to them. The man, all slick dark hair and blue eyes, held out a warrant card and introduced himself, "DI Gethin Turner." He motioned at his colleague, "DS Manju Bhaskar, Stokely and District Police."

"How can I help?" He had a surge of momentary fear; the stack of copied DVDs on the living room floor, the tiny bag of weed behind that box of green tea in the kitchen cupboard… Perkins took a calming breath. They surely wouldn't send a DI for that.

"This is about a pupil of yours, Will Clarke. I'm given to understand you're his head of year?"

Perkins nodded. "That's right. Not that we've seen much of him these last few weeks." At the curious looks on the officers' faces he quickly elaborated, "He started seeing Ingrid Count, biggest troublemaker we've ever had, and both of them just seem to have given up on school. His nan, Enid – lovely woman – seems to think he's gone back to stay with his mother up in Bangor. But,"

He shifted uncomfortably, wondering how much he ought to say. "Well, everyone I've asked seems convinced he's living up at the castle with the Counts."

"Thank you for your help, Mr. Perkins." To Bhaskar, Turner said, "Right, let's get over to the castle."

"They're not there."

"Sorry?" The police stopped in the doorway and Perkins smiled apologetically.

"We had a letter this morning; the Counts have gone back to Transylvania. They've been planning it for weeks apparently."

Turner nodded sharply before exiting, but, Perkins got the impression that revelation hadn't made him too popular.

* * *

Robin sighed in relief as he shut the bathroom door behind him. It wasn't that he had forgotten what it felt like before Vlad was around, he had just, he supposed, taken Vlad for granted. Had thought the other boy would always be around. And now…

He twisted the tap on, wincing as it made his arm ache harder, and splashed his face with cold water. He couldn't believe it was still only lunchtime. Turning the tap off, he rested his forehead against the mirror and thought about Vlad. He wondered how much further they had to go before they reached Transylvania, and if Vlad would write to him once he got there like he had said he would.

Pulling back he started in shock.

"Vlad!"

Twisting around he was met with nothing other than empty stalls and his own backpack. He looked back at the mirror and frowned, he could have sworn he had seen Vlad. The door swung open to reveal some year 11 boys and Robin hurriedly grabbed his bag and made to leave.

Pining over Vlad was not going to help him.


	4. Chapter 4

"Darling!" Magda held her fingers under Vlad's chin, tipping his head up slightly, "That's better. My baby's first night at the Academy." Turning to the artist she hissed, "Make sure you capture his cheekbones." She put an arm round his shoulders and pulled his closer, "He inherited them from me."

Vlad sagged in relief as she let go, tugging at the too-tight collar of his new uniform. His respite didn't last long however, not with Granny Westenra appearing in front of him as soon as he had managed to squirm into a somewhat comfortable position.

"Look at you." Vlad looked down at himself, wondering what exactly was wrong with his appearance. Granny didn't make him wait long for an answer. "Wipe that placid expression off your face! Glower properly, _like this_." Vlad shrank back slightly as she demonstrated.

"You ought to think yourself lucky, if it weren't for the crown the Academy would never have accepted a breather-loving wimpire like you." Vlad scowled. "The Council," Krone snapped her fingers and a tall, gothic looking man stepped forward. He reminded Vlad a little of Robin and he had to look away before his emotions could get the better of him. "Have sent you a bodyguard. You will be together at all times."

"I don't want a bodyguard!" Vlad got down from the plinth, anger growing. If he had to have somebody then the only vampire he trusted not to stake him in his sleep was Ingrid, and nobody seemed to have any idea where she was.

Krone leant in close, "Until you turn sixteen what you _want_ is immaterial. You will do as I say."

"Vladdy," The Count interrupted. "You lucky cad! Just think, you'll be able to get up to all sorts of mischief with," he gestured at the Council's latest idea, "him around. Mistress Dabrowski's thumbscrews will be but an empty threat." The Count looked at the ceiling wistfully.

"Th-thumbscrews." Vlad stuttered.

"Yes," the Count shook his head as if shrugging off distant memories, "Best years of your life. Of course, I can understand their appeal for a growing boy."

"No!" Krone looked at him sharply, and Vlad shrugged and tried a winning smile, "I mean, I don't _mind_ having a bodyguard."

Krone sneered, "Well, that's settled then."

The Council aide – Vlad realised he should really find out the man's name - bowed low and gestured to his waiting luggage, "Your Grandness?"

Vlad sighed. Here went nothing.

* * *

"Somebody must have seen something!" Gethin threw a file down onto the table in exasperation. "Whatever happened to nosy neighbours!"

Manju gave him an apologetic look. "Her daughter will be here tomorrow, she might have a better idea. And we've circulated pictures of Will Clarke and Ingrid Count. The Romanian police have been alerted too."

"I don't know," Gethin shook his head. "Where's the motive? They're only sixteen." He sighed. "And the press will have to know tomorrow, we won't be able to keep something like this," he flung a hand out towards the white board, covered in photographs from the crime scene, "quiet."

"I've got some more bad news, Sir."

He looked up at his colleague in disbelief, how could this case possibly get any worse?

"The boys' father came into the station earlier and made a complaint against PC Brown. Said," she looked down at her notes, "and I quote, 'he treated my son like a criminal'."

Gethin sighed and rubbed at his growing stress headache, "Just what we needed."

* * *

"No English, no pets, no sexual liaisons,"

Vlad scurried down the corridor, trying to keep up with Madam Dabrowski's determined strides. Next to him Andrei didn't even seem to even have to hurry.

"No fruit, no vegetables, no electronic equipment,"

Vlad followed her into a large crypt, looking about nervously at the posters pasted to the cold grey walls. Dabrowski came to a halt at the foot of a large coffin. Andrei set his luggage down and stood, at attention, waiting for the woman to speak.

"And absolutely _no_ contact with breathers. Unless you're feeding, in which case you should record it in the registry. Breakfast is at 7:30. Sharp."

With that she turned and left. Vlad looked at the coffin and swallowed. What had he let himself in for?

* * *

"You saying I'm a bad mother? He's sixteen years old, he does what he wants!"

Gethin bit back a sigh and reminded himself that the public, like customers, were always right. "I'm not saying anything, Miss. Clarke. We just need to know where your son is."

"You're wasting your time," Carol Clarke sneered back at him, nicotine stained fingers tapping irritably against the side of her mug, "it wasn't him. Hasn't got it in him."

"We have to look into every possibility."

"Yeah? Keep accusing my son and you won't be looking at nothing!"

Gethin did his best to smile politely before excusing himself from the room. Once in the corridor he leant back against the door for a moment. Why hadn't he listened to his own mother and become an accountant?

* * *

"Chloe, can I sit here?"

Chloe pulled a face but, remembering her mother's ruling on the subject, nodded. Robin slid into the seat and she couldn't help but feel sorry for him. The dark circles under his eyes were stark against his otherwise colourless face, his expression miserable. He picked at his dinner and Chloe tried to think of something to say, eventually settling on,

"Are you missing Vlad?"

Richard Price, who had been talking to someone at the table behind them, perched on the table next to her, grinning.

"Aw, boys, you hear that? Branagh's _missing_ Saddo Vladdo." Chloe scowled up at the older boy but he ignored her, Andrew Davis and Tommo Watson quickly moving to flank him on either side. "So what happened then, Branagh? We all want to know."

They were attracting a crowd now, some of the popular girls coming over to cheer Price on. "Get sick of keeping his back to the wall, did he?" Sniggers rippled around the room and Chloe was surprised when Robin kept his head down rather than fight back.

"Nah," Davis smirked, "Count's a proper batty. Branagh just couldn't do it properly and he got bored. Ain't that right, Branagh? Useless, aren't you?" The three boys fell about laughing as Robin grabbed his bag and fled from the canteen. "See, what did I tell you?"

Before Chloe could tell them what she thought of them, someone else was giving it a good go.

"Think you're so funny, don't you? There was no need for that."

"What's the matter Van Helstinks?" Watson started, "Got the hots for Branagh too?"

"Grow up."

"Come on boys." Price stood, not before taking Robin's unopened chocolate bar from the table, "We got better things to do."

"Are you alright?" Jonno looked genuinely concerned and Chloe smiled back at him.

"Yeah, thanks."

Jonno smiled back. "It's okay." He hesitated for a moment, "Do you mind if I sit with you?"

Chloe shook her head and scooted her stuff over, pushing the part of her head telling her she should go and check on Robin firmly to one side. He could look after himself.

* * *

"Have you got it yet?"

"Give me a minute!" Stefan snapped, turning the volume up on the device attached to her mobile phone.

Ingrid sighed and fingered the freshly cut edges of her hair again. She couldn't see it, but she was sure it suited her. It was her face shape, anything would. When it was _her_ face plastered across every billboard in the vampire world at least everyone would have something attractive to look at.

But, first, she had to do this. For Will. Straightening out the BBC news print-out, she read it again,

_Welsh town shocked by 'grotesque' murder_

_Detectives investigating the murder of an 82-year-old widow have today described the crime as "grotesque"._

_Enid Clarke died following a break-in at her home in Granada Street, Upper Stokely in the early hours of Sunday morning. Her body was discovered at 11:45 GMT by two local boys, due to help her decorate the spare room. Friends say she wanted it to be "welcoming" for her teenaged grandson._

_The boy, Will Clarke, a pupil at the nearby Stokely Grammar School, has not been seen since Saturday night. Those in charge of the investigation are appealing for him to come forward, if only to be eliminated from the inquiry._

_Stokely and District Police, speaking at a press conference earlier today, admitted they were stunned by the ferocity of the attack. Detective Inspector Gethin Turner said they were looking for "a dangerous killer" and asked the public to share any information they might have._

_Officers have said they particularly wish to trace the owner of a dark blue transit van seen in the vicinity on Saturday afternoon._

_Mrs. Clarke was stabbed 16 times with, what police are describing as, "some kind of bladed weapon". Forensic teams are continuing their search of the house._

_DI Turner urged local residents, many elderly themselves, to remain calm and insisted police presence in the area would be increased._

Folding the paper back up Ingrid resumed her anxious pacing of the room. She owed it to Will to clear his name; he had loved the old woman and he would hate to be associated with her death, she knew.

"Alright, I think I've got it."

"You better have or I'll rethink who gets to work _with_ me," Ingrid hissed and handed him Will's mobile phone. It hadn't stopped ringing all day.

Stefan took it and scrolled through the address book, settling on 'the old witch'. There was a tense moment as it rang.

"Mum? Yeah, it's me."

Ingrid sighed in relief, the voice was perfect. She hoped that wherever Will was, this would make it easier for him to forgive her.

* * *

"Robin, what are you doing home?"

Robin opened his mouth to answer but, to his horror, the tears that had been threatening all the way home finally spilled over. His mum was at his side in an instant, pulling him into a hug.

Through his sniffing he managed, "I hate it there." It was true, he always had hated school. It just didn't seem quite so bad when Vlad was there with him. He clung closer. Vlad wasn't there anymore.

Robin eventually let go, swiping at his face, embarrassed.

"It's alright," Mrs. Branagh soothed. "Why don't you go upstairs, and I'll ring the school and tell them you're not well."

He did as he was told, slowly climbing the stairs to his bedroom. Once there he dumped his bag to the floor and fought not to cry again. He didn't know what was wrong with him. It wasn't like Price was saying anything worse to him than he normally did.

What didn't help was the fact he kept seeing Vlad from the corner of his eye. Three times it had happened now, and it was freaking him out. They said that sort of thing happened when you were going mad. Or when you were ghost sensitive. But that would mean Vlad were dead and, of the two options, he'd much rather be cuckoo.

There was a knock on his door and Robin rubbed at his face again before calling 'okay'. His mum opened the door and quietly shut it behind her, sitting next to him on the bed.

"I've made you some tea."

He sniffed and nodded, not feeling able to speak.

Mrs. Branagh smiled at him and scooted closer, "And I've brought this up." Robin took the DVD case she was holding and turned it over, it was emblazoned with 'Dracula Triple Bill'. "I thought we could watch it together. The first two anyway."

Robin looked at his mum curiously and Mrs. Branagh grinned back at him. "Lon Chaney Jr – not fit to be associated with the Great Lugosi. See, I do listen." She got up to put the DVD on, then made him scoot over to sit next to him, unwrapping a pack of biscuits and handing them to him.

He smiled gratefully and, as Dwight Frye argued with the Transylvanian peasant folk, felt almost normal for the first time in days.

* * *

"You asked for that."

PC Darren Brown scowled at Sharon as he sat down. Sharon shook her head and shoveled down another forkful of canteen slop, "The kid's only thirteen, hardly a criminal mastermind."

"Those boys that killed little Jamie Bulger were only ten."

Sharon looked at him incredulously, "Please don't tell me you just likened the Branagh kid to the Bulger killers. If the DI heard you say that it wouldn't just be a ticking off he'd give you!"

"Too right."

They both sat up guiltily at the sound of DI Turner's voice. "Don't forget Brown, I want you to make a full apology to the boy tomorrow."

"Yes, Sir."

Sharon waited until the DI was through the door before speaking again, "Don't worry, Dar. He's just in a bad mood 'cos the Clarke kid has been ruled out of inquiries. He's been in touch and there have been three reported sightings of him along the route to Romania."

Darren sighed and looked at the clock, "Up for a drink?"


	5. Chapter 5

"Ohh, look at _that_."

"Give it here!"

"Aw, _nice_. I could definitely sink my teeth into that."

"I'd drain it dry."

"Totally."

The boy next to him handed the copy of _The Sunblock_ they were all looking at to Vlad. It took him a moment to work out what he was supposed to be looking at. It was a photograph of a neck; he looked at the page number and snorted. It figured – page three.

"What, not good enough for your _Grandness_, is it?"

Vlad handed it back and scowled. The other boy – tall and stocky, reminding him more of one of the Tanybryn Crew than a vampire – loomed over him menacingly. Vlad squared his shoulders and did his best not to look intimidated. Andrei had disappeared over an hour ago with the green-eyed prefect who was supposed to be keeping order.

He was just starting to lose his nerve when the boy gave in and clapped him on the shoulder. "You know what? You're alright. Jan." He held his hand out and Vlad shook it tentatively. "We'd better be quick, Dabrowski'll be down in a minute."

By the time Andrei reappeared at the breakfast table, smelling suspiciously of the prefect's aftershave, he felt – for the first time in his life – like one of the gang.

* * *

_Something_ flashed across the road and hit the car with a resounding thump. Renfield pulled at the brakes, the car screeching to a halt. Nervously he opened the door and got out, hoping that whatever it was hadn't damaged the paintwork. The Master always got so angry when he messed things up.

The instant he was on his feet Ingrid appeared in front of him. "Mi-Mistress Ingrid?"

"Insect biter." Ingrid sneered at him, her gaze sweeping up and down disdainfully. "Didn't I always say I'd repay you for your _kindness_ and _generosity_?" Renfield shrank back against the side of the car, looking about him for some way of escape.

"Look at me you repulsive animal!"

Renfield did as he was told, shaking with fear. "I want my things. Stack them there," she pointed to a spot at the side of the road. When he didn't jump to it she grabbed hold of his arm and twisted it back painfully, "Now!"

When he was almost done she followed him round to the back of the hearse, her presence malevolent and oppressing. "What's that?" Renfield followed her gaze and swallowed,

"You can't have that. That's Master Vlad's."

Ingrid shook her head, as if amused. "I can have whatever I want." Renfield refused to move, stubbornly keeping his eyes on the floor. "If you don't get it I'll snap your neck and get it myself." Renfield scurried to do her bidding and Ingrid smiled triumphantly, intimidation was _so_ easy.

"That everything?"

Renfield nodded eagerly.

"There's only one thing left to do then." Ingrid raised her palm, flames instantly engulfing the hearse. "Oh," she grinned, "I almost forgot; _two_ things."

"Please don't hurt me, Mistress."

"Aw, it won't be painful, Renfield." She smiled mockingly as she raised her palm again, "It'll be _agonising_."

* * *

"You should try to eat something, Robin."

"I'm not hungry."

"More for me then," Paul grinned and swiped the toast from Robin's plate.

"Do you want some cereal? A banana? I could make you some porridge, I know you like porridge."

"Mam!" Chloe interrupted, halting Mrs. Branagh's attempts. "He said he's not hungry."

"If you're sure?"

Robin nodded and, before she had chance to check again, he was grabbing his bag and heading out the door with Paul and Chloe, Ian hobbling behind with the help of his crutches.

Sinking into a chair Mrs. Branagh cast her husband a pleading look. "Do you think I should ring the school? Or go and see this boy's mother?" She thought of the grey tinge to Robin's skin and red-rimmed eyes and felt useless. She couldn't bear to see him so miserable.

Mr. Branagh shook his head, "He won't thank you for it, Elizabeth."

"There has to be something I can do!"

Mr. Branagh just put a hand on her arm. "We just have to be there for him."

* * *

"I want to know what you lot are doing about my mother?"

"Miss. Clarke." Gethin plastered a false smile on his face and steered her away from the overwhelmed looking FDO and into one of the side rooms. Oh, how he loved dealing with the public.

"Get your hands off me!"

He held his hands up in a non-threatening manner; textbook, he thought snidely.

"I told you it wasn't my Will, didn't I?" Carol slid into the plastic chair, the way she almost missed telling him she was beyond drunk, just in case his sense of smell had taken the day off. "He's a good boy. Loved his nana. More than he ever loved me."

She started crying and Gethin felt the first twinge of real sympathy for the woman.

"I just want you to catch them. You will, won't you?"

"We're doing everything we can." And he meant it.

He was showing Miss. Clarke from the building when he caught sight of three Stokely Grammar boys loitering at the foot of the front steps. Year Nine he'd say. Checking his watch Gethin made his way down to them. They ought to be in school by now.

"Can I help you, boys?"

They looked at each other, guiltily he couldn't help thinking, before the obvious ringleader of the three spoke. "It's about that murder, the one in Granada Street."

"Yes," Gethin encouraged.

The boy looked back at his friends for support before meeting his gaze. "We know who did it."

* * *

"So have you told this Robin kid you're in love with him?"

"What!"

"Haha," Jan fell about laughing, "should have seen the look on your face. Seriously though, you haven't shut up about him."

Vlad shrugged uncomfortably, he couldn't help it. He wondered if Robin were thinking about him too. He hoped so.

"You want to take a leaf out of old Andrei's book – he's at it again!"

"I know," Vlad sighed. He hoped any would be assassin would be kind enough to fit their attempt around Andrei's sex-life.

Jan grinned, interpreting his answer as knowing he should try it on with Robin, rather than knowing that Andrei couldn't keep his pants on for more than twenty minutes at a time. "Bring him a blushing virgin, never fails."

Vlad blanched and Jan's brow creased in concentration. "One of them new age types, is he? Hmmm… You could do what the breathers do. You know, all that chocolate and flowers stuff. Might work, stranger things have happened."

Pulling his knees up to his chest, leaning back against the plush velvet upholstery of his coffin, Vlad shook his head. "I don't think so." Before Jan could think up anything else he went on, "If I told him he'd never speak to me again." He fidgeted with the edge of his sleep cape, "He could never like me like _that_."

Jan pulled a face, "Aw, don't tell me, he's from _Trans-Siberia_?" Vlad didn't correct him; from the banter he'd been privy to all night he imagined 'oh, didn't I say he was a breather?' would go down like bacon at a Bar Mitzvah. "Rotten luck, mate. I hear they're going to make it legal soon though. If you're serious, you could wait."

Vlad wrapped his arms around his chest. He had a feeling he'd be waiting a long time.

* * *

"'_OAP Murder Vampiric Say Locals'_" Ryan waved Paul and Adam over to his computer, "Lads look, I'm in the paper!" Once they were gathered round he continued reading,

"_Police have confirmed what we at the Mirror EXCLUSIVELY revealed this morning: Enid Clarke, the pensioner brutally hacked to death in the South Wales Valleys, had her HEART removed._

_Her sick killer then slashed at Mrs. Clarke's legs, draining the blood into a saucepan and DRINKING it. Det Insp Gethin Turner of Stokely and District Police described the scene as "grotesque" at yesterday's press conference._

_Since then however Ryan Haskell, a pupil at Stokely Grammar School – also attended by the widow's grandson, Will Clarke – told a MIRROR reporter: "The police are trying to hush it up but everyone 'round here knows the truth. Whoever did this is clinically insane. They carved that old lady's heart out of her chest and drank her blood like a vampire. It's sick."_

_Forensic teams scoured the house but have yet to find anything. Appeals to the public have been similarly disappointing. Police admit they have NO idea who carried out this savage attack._

_This comes only weeks after Fred Mercer, the most wanted man in Wales, was captured in Stokely after a nationwide manhunt. Residents say they are living in FEAR and demand police do more to bring this PSYCHOPATH to justice."_

"What's going on here?" Mr. Ashton peered over their shoulders in disgust, "That doesn't look like a spreadsheet to me."

"I'm in the paper, sir!" Ryan pointed at the screen excitedly.

"You are not _in the paper_ Haskell. Your name has been mentioned in a piece of sensationalist online tat."

Ryan shrugged and grinned at Paul, "Same thing, ain't it?"

"What is this rubbish?" Mr. Ashton pulled a face, "Drinking blood, ripping out hearts, vampires? Isn't this more your brother's scene, Branagh?"

"It's not rubbish, sir!" Paul protested. "Me and Robin found the body."

"Is that why he was-" Mr. Aston trailed off, not knowing how to put it delicately.

"Crying in assembly like a girl?" Ryan offered.

Paul nodded, clicking through to a link entitled 'See Jordan's latest surgery pics!', "Yeah, I feel sorry for him." He looked up at Mr. Ashton, "He was always a bit mad, but now he's proper lost it. He was up at _three_ this morning screaming about invisible spiders and killer moths." Paul wiggled his fingers to represent said imaginary insects as he said it.

Adam smirked, "Should lock him up with old Van Helstinks."

The boys laughed and, for once, Mr. Ashton didn't even call them up on it.

* * *

"Branagh!" Van Helsing slammed a ruler down against the boy's desk, making him jump in his seat. "This is a woodwork lesson, not naptime."

"Sorry, Sir."

Van Helsing looked closely at Robin, he looked awful. His skin was so pale the boy looked _dead_. Van Helsing shuddered. "Just see it doesn't happen again."

He was about to continue his rounds when there was a knock at the classroom door. The kids all twisted round in their seats to watch as the headteacher ushered in two smartly-suited plain clothes officers – he could just tell from their demeanour.

"DI Gethin Turner, DS Manju Bhaskar. Can we have a word please?"

"With me?" Van Helsing asked, feeling foolish as soon as the words left his lips. At the woman's nod he made his way out into the corridor, wincing as the noise level rose instantly. He wouldn't live this down for weeks.

"It's about the murder of Mrs. Clarke. I'm sorry to have to ask this but – where were you between midnight and 5am on Sunday morning?"

Van Helsing shook his head. "Who pointed you in my direction? Let me guess," He glanced through the door's glass panel; Price was stood on a table flicking scrunched up bits of paper at Branagh's head. "Richard Price, Andrew Davis and Thomas Watson?"

"I'm afraid I can't say, Sir."

"No." Van Helsing did his best to smile at them. Price was going to be serving detention until he was grey. "I can tell you where I was. I went to a farewell drinks party at the Count's which ended at 7:00pm." At the officers' raised eyebrows he said, "They had an early start. After that I went home with my wife and son. We live on school property, you can check the CCTV."

"We will, Sir."

Van Helsing watched them disappear down the hallway before taking a breath and re-entering the classroom,

"_PRICE!"_

* * *

Robin leaned in closer to his bedroom mirror, examining the dark bruises under his eyes. He had always liked the 'gaunt and dying' look, but even he could tell he was taking things a bit far. His eye was drawn to the photograph of him and Vlad wedged into the mirror frame and he sighed.

It felt like his life was falling apart. If he could just speak to Vlad for a few minutes…

Excitedly he grabbed his mobile phone from his backpack, scrolling through his address book for Ingrid's number. He didn't know why he hadn't thought of this before. Vlad might not have a mobile but he'd be with Ingrid anyway. It rang once, twice, three times before Ingrid's irritated tone crackled across the line.

"What do you want, Branagh?"

"Can I speak to Vlad? Please?"

"No."

"No?" Robin pulled a face, what was that about?

"Speaking to a parrot, am I? Vlad's too busy too speak to losers like you, his words not mine."

"Oh," Robin said, throat suddenly aching. "Is he alright though?"

"Vlad? If you call being a repulsive blot on the face of the Earth being alright, then he's doing well. Now go away and don't contact me again unless you want me to come over there and smash your kneecaps!"

The line went dead and Robin sank down onto his bed miserably. Vlad didn't want to speak to him. He didn't think Vlad would have actually called him a loser, at least he hoped not, Ingrid was just being horrible. But it wasn't like Vlad had made any attempt to get into contact with him.

"Sad, isn't it?"

Robin jerked his head up, looking around his empty room, certain somebody had just spoken. "I said it's sad. That he doesn't want you anymore."

"H-how?" Robin stared at the mirror, at the space where his reflection ought to be. At the space where _Vlad_ really shouldn't be, leaning nonchantly against the frame, arms folded across his chest. He shook his head, "This isn't real. I'm just asleep again."

"Are you?" The Vlad that wasn't – couldn't be – Vlad sneered in response. His heart was pounding fit to burst through his chest in fear, cold sweat trickling down the back of his neck. "Why don't you come closer and find out."

Robin edged closer to the mirror, telling himself over and over again that it was only a dream, a really weird messed up dream, until he was just inches away from it. Vlad held his hand out against the glass, his fingertips touching the cold surface. Robin looked away from his eyes, they were completely black, and reached out tentatively, afraid of what might happen.

The instant his fingertips touched the face changed, ridges appearing across Vlad's forehead. He bared_fangs_and hissed, a horrid high pitched noise that made him drag his hand away in fright, stumbling backwards to land on the floor. Robin looked back up at the mirror, there was nothing there, then back at his hand.

It hadn't been glass he'd felt against his fingertips. It had been skin, he was sure of it.

"Is he asleep?"

Paul pulled his earphones out, dance music suddenly blaring into the otherwise quiet room. "Yeah. He _proper _snores."

Mrs. Branagh gave him a half smile. "Thanks for this, Paul. I've never seen him worked up like that before."

"Don't thank me. It's Ian who's got to sleep in his bed." Paul pulled a face. His mam might have changed the sheets but it would still _smell_ of Robin. It was bad enough having him on the other side of the room. On the other hand, Ian was safely out of arms reach if Robin had another screaming fit. Not quite sure he wanted the answer he asked, "Do you think he's really seeing things?"

"I don't know," Mrs. Branagh shook her head. "I just don't know."


	6. Chapter 6

"If I hear of any trouble in this lesson – and I mean _any_ trouble – I'll have you in my office and on the rack faster than you can say 'garlic'. Am I understood?"

"Yes, Madam Dabrowski."

"Frau. Scholz," Dabrowski nodded politely, before bowing deeply, "Your Grandness."

Jan nudged him as soon as she was through the door. "I'll never get tired of seeing her do that. We've got a social on Saturday, you _have_ to come. Old Tschetter's going to be there."

"You_have_ to," agreed Za'ir, pushing his completely unvampiric glasses up his nose. "Old Tschetter deserves to be taken down a peg or two. Thinks he's like the devil or something just cos he killed a few hundred peasants in 876!"

"Boys! Ruhe, bitte!" Silence fell and Frau. Scholz smiled at them. She reminded Vlad a little of his favourite dinner lady at Stokely Grammer, the one who always asked how he was and gave him extra dessert, and he decided he liked her. "Now who can tell me the first rule of cookery?"

Jan stuck his hand in the air, "Just say no to the KKK Miss!"

"Well done, Jan."

Vlad nudged Jan, who was grinning all over his face, and hissed, "KKK?" Jan pointed at a poster on the wall next to them. It was a picture of a vampire on fire, emblazoned with the words '_Just say no to the KKK: Kapes and Kloaks in the Kitchen_.'"

"Lush."

"Yeah, I know. It's my favourite." Vlad looked back to see Jan staring wistfully at the food prep desk. Suddenly he felt sick.

"Today we're going to learn how to make that modern classic, chargrill kitten." Her gaze swept the room before settling on him, "Vlad, how would you like to pop up here and learn how to prepare it."

"I'd, er, rather not if you don't mind, Miss."

"Don't be shy, Vlad! They won't bite." She picked one up and held its mouth open, "See, they've already had their teeth pulled." Every eye was resting on him and Vlad forced himself to get up. He was the Grand High Vampire. The Chosen One. He could do this.

"There's a good boy. Now you come here and hold her." Vlad did as he was told, holding the animal carefully. It mewled up at him and he grimaced. He was an evil vampire, he _could_ do this. Pitched quietly, so only he – and the other boys who had gained their powers already – could hear it, she said, "I know it's hard at first, but it's the only way you can graduate. You have to prove you can feed yourself."

To the rest of the class she said, "Put one hand round the neck," she positioned Vlad's hand, "and the other under its chin," she moved his other hand and held them firm. "Then we just pull and – _twist_." She forced Vlad's hands to make the action, the 'crunch' sounding deafening to his ears.

He looked down and saw its broken neck and felt himself falling. When he next opened his eyes it was to see Frau. Scholz and Andrei peering down at him. "I'm alright." Andrei helped him up and he dropped, thankfully, into his seat.

"Blimey heck!" Za'ir grinned at him, "That's going to be in all the history books. 'Kitten bests GHV'!"

Vlad shook his head. He just wanted to go home – back to Stokely, back to his dad and Ingrid's bickering and, most of all, back to Robin.

* * *

"Are you even listening to me, Mina!"

"Yes, love." Mina said distractedly, putting Jonno's breakfast down in front of him.

"Little brat had the cheek to say to me 'We thought you did do it, Sir. You like vampires and all that shit.' _All that shit? _What's that supposed to mean?" Van Helsing waved his butter smeared knife around, earning himself a glare from Jonno.

"Dad, you have to admit, you were pretty obsessed with vampires."

"Yes, with the dangers media portrayals of vampires can do. And I was right, wasn't I? Some," he waved the knife around again, "nutcase has seen a few too many episodes of _Buffy the"_ he hooked his fingers in the air, "_Vampire Slayer_ and thought to himself, I'll have a piece of that."

"How do you know it was a man?" Mina asked smugly. "It could just as easily have been a woman."

"Oh, come off it. That was the work of a man."

"I'm telling you, once you've worked in the mental health service you don't rule _anyone_ out. There was this one case -"

Jonno pulled a face, "Right, that's it. I'm going to school."

Mina watched him go with a smile before sliding into the seat next to Eric, "Aw, don't be stressed. Only one more day 'til half term."

"You forget," Van Helsing looked at her morosely, "tomorrow's a teacher training day."

* * *

"Oi, Branagh!"

Robin groaned and quickened his pace. Why couldn't Price bunk off like a normal trouble maker? He was almost to the art block when Price stepped in front of him, Watson and Davis appearing either side of him like a bad magic trick.

Drawing himself to his full height Robin glared back at them, he'd had enough of it. If he was going mad, and the pitying looks everyone had given him at the breakfast table seemed to suggest he was, he might as well go full out. "What do you want? If you're looking for a foursome," he shrugged, "I can't help you. Sorry."

"What the fuck, Branagh!" Price had a hand round his throat and the back of his skull pressed against the wall before Robin even had chance to kick himself for being so stupid. "I know it was you who grassed us up."

"Gr-" He cleared his throat in an attempt to sound less like a first year whose voice hadn't broken, "Grassed you up? It wasn't me."

"Don't mess me about. You told Van Helsing!"

"Look, I really don't know what you're talking about. So if you just let me-"

Price punched him in the gut, leaving him unable to do anything more than whimper and clutch at his stomach.

"You told him we went to the police. I know it was you. And your mam rang the school to complain about me. I'll give you something to fucking complain about, Branagh."

Robin struggled against Price's grip as the bigger boy's fist connected with his nose. His hands flew to his face. It _hurt_.

"Watch out, Harker's about." Davis warned. Price gave him one last punch to the stomach before the three of them disappeared down to the tuck shop. Robin just leaned against the wall for a long moment, eyes clenched shut.

* * *

"We're never going to get anywhere with this case. And PC bloody Brown still hasn't apologised to the Branagh kid." Gethin Turner flung the board marker back down irritably, "Off with food poisoning. Hangover more like."

Manju sighed, "_Somebody_ must have seen something."

"Sir," PC Damer stuck her head round the door of his office, "M'am, there's someone at the front desk who wants to speak to you. Says she saw something."

Gethin clasped his hands together and looked up at the whitewashed ceiling, "Thank you, God!"

* * *

"Ah, Renfield, about time! I've been wearing these underpants for almost a week!"

"Oh Master!" Renfield sobbed, surging towards him and trying to fling his arms around him.

"Ugh, get off me you festering idiot!" The Count pulled a face and brushed down his waistcoat, "What's wrong with your skin? You haven't caught leprosy again, have you?"

"It w-was Mistress Ingrid, Master. She did it."

"Did she really?" The Count looked at him again, his expression full of approval.

"And she set fire to all your belongings."

"What!" The Count roared, "She's gone too far this time! Renfield, fetch me my travelling cape in readiness. Renfield?" He looked down to see Renfield collapsed on the floor and sighed. You just couldn't get the staff.

* * *

Robin fell through the bathroom door in relief, Price wouldn't come anywhere near for a good ten minutes, he would be stuffing his face in the canteen. Dropping his bag to the floor he bit back his momentary fear – his mam was right, he'd just been so tired he'd dreamt it – and carefully inspected his nose in the mirror above the sinks.

It was a little swollen, but not too bad. It wasn't broken at least. He turned the tap on and patted gently at the blood, no wonder people kept asking him what he'd done. He had told Mr. Perkins he'd tripped up the stairs in the art block. It had hurt that the man had just accepted it; he'd always been his favourite teacher. Angrily he rummaged through his bag for a tissue.

"You should have hit him back."

A cold chill went through him at the sound of _that_ voice. Reluctantly he raised his head, praying he wouldn't see anything other than his own reflection staring back at him.

"What's wrong? Scared? Of little old me?" The thing – he didn't want to call it Vlad – pointed at himself, barking with demonic laughter. "I'm the last thing you should worry about."

Robin clutched at the sink, desperate for something normal to latch on to. Whispering, he stuttered, "What do you want with me?"

Its black eyes glittered malevolently, "I only want to help you. If you work with me, I promise he'll never lay a finger on you again." Robin shook his head and it hissed at him again, making him shrink back towards the stalls. "Don't be like that; you know you'd do anything to be rid of him." Its voice dropped to a cold whisper, "It wouldn't be the first time, would it?"

Sharp pain stabbed through his head, a hundred times worse than Price's fist in his nose, and he pushed his hands into his hair, face contorting. Images flooded his senses; blood, there was blood everywhere. On his hands, on his face, on his T-shirt – the T-shirt bundled up under his bed so his mam wouldn't see it. He looked up in horror.

"No," He shook his head wildly, "you're lying. I didn't. I wouldn't."

"Didn't you? Wouldn't you? But," It flashed him a hideous smile and Robin clutched his hands to his chest in terror, "the mirror never lies."

The awful laughing started again and Robin picked up his backpack and flung it at the mirror, panting harshly as it smashed to smithereens. The door pushed open to reveal Jonno Van Helsing and Mathew Lloyd.

"What the –"

"I didn't do it!" Robin shook his head before pushing past them and out through the main doors into the cold spring air. He couldn't have.


	7. Chapter 7

"ARGH!"

Vlad screamed in horror, the stake was _millimetres_ away from his chest. Before he even had chance to think of all the things he was going to miss, the face looming above his – the prefect Andrei had disappeared with on his first night there - had disappeared, and he was covered in dust.

"You okay?"

Vlad sat up, using his hands to brush it away – he was now covered in _dead_ body. Gross! – and shook his head. "What do you think! He almost killed me!" He glared at Andrei accusingly.

"Of course he didn't. I was an assassin before your father hit puberty."

Vlad grimaced. "Yeah, well, now my coffin's full of bits."

Andrei sighed, "Stop whinging, you can share mine." When Vlad made no attempt to move, he bowed low and put on a mocking voice, "Oh, your Grandness, please do me the honour of gracing my casket with your inimitable presence."

In spite of himself Vlad smiled. "So long as you don't _touch_ me."

"I don't go in for children," Andrei said as he gave him a hand over the side of his coffin.

"I'm _fourteen_!"

"Are you?" Andrei frowned, and looked him up and down, "You look about ten. At most."

Vlad scowled at the other man's back. He did_not_ look ten. He was still sulking about it when Andrei pulled the coffin lid down over them. In the darkness he blinked, waiting for his eyes to adjust, and shifted about trying to get comfortable. He didn't see why Andrei got to have a double coffin anyway. A horrid thought occurred,

"You haven't _done_ anything in here, have you?"

"No." Andrei grinned at him, "We can christen it if you want."

Vlad pulled a face. "No! I thought you just said I looked ten."

"It's dark now, isn't it?" Andrei shrugged. At Vlad's look of horror he laughed, "Vlad, I'm only joking!" Looking at him carefully he said, "Are you feeling okay now? I was trying to do it without waking you up. I scoped him out as potentially hostile as soon as I saw him."

"Is that," Vlad started, realising that Andrei had just been trying to distract him from the fact he had almost died with his insults, the man wasn't really so bad, "why you-" he swallowed, "why you, you know, with him?"

"Had sex?"

He might not really have the blood spare but his body did a good job of getting his cheeks to flame all the same.

"Partly," Andrei shrugged.

Vlad thought about it for a moment. "How many people have you, you know?"

"Dunno. A couple of thousand maybe."

"And how old are you?" Vlad looked at him in shock.

"One hundred and fifty," he hesitated for a moment, counting, "seven. I was turned in 1876."

'He's a half-fang!' Vlad thought to himself. He had thought they were banned from working for the Council. Then again, he thought, it wasn't like he was about to win any prizes for his knowledge of vampire lore.

Andrei settled back with his arms folded across his chest, the way the Academy said you should sleep, but Vlad's curiosity got the better of him. "Haven't you ever been in love with anyone?" He thought of Robin and his chest ached. Jan said they could go into the village and send letters on the weekend. He'd already written seven drafts ranging in form from a short postcard to a rambling ten page essay waxing lyrical about the other boy's sharp wit and big brown eyes.

"Of course," Andrei snorted and shook his head. Realising Vlad was serious he sighed and elaborated, "I was very young, I asked her to marry me. Her father refused." Andrei smiled at him, but it was full of sadness. "I was turned not long after; when I had learnt how to control it I went back, to ask for her hand again. I could have showered her in riches then."

"And?" Vlad asked eagerly.

"_And_, nothing. I looked in through the drawing room window and she was sat there, face all rosy pink in the glow of the fire, and she was smiling. Really smiling, like I had never seen her do. Then I saw _him_." From the menace in his voice anyone would think it had happened a couple of months ago, not back when it was _normal_ to light your entire house with flickering wax candles. Andrei controlled it though and his next words were calm, "But she was happy. When you love someone, how they feel is all that really matters."

Vlad nodded. Now that was something he could relate to.

* * *

"You look happy!" Mina said, grinning at Jonno. "They should schedule teacher training days more often!"

"It's more than that," Jonno beamed up at her. "I'm taking Chloe to the museum today. She wants to see that new exhibition on the Great Plague of London."

"Chloe Branagh? Oooh." Mina smiled; she'd had an inkling about this for weeks. "You'll have to be careful there mind," at Jonno's look of confusion she went on, "three brothers to deal with!"

Jonno shook his head, shrugging into his jacket and making for the door, "It's not like I want to go out with _them_."

Mina hesitated for a moment before grabbing her own jacket. This would cheer Elizabeth up.

* * *

Mrs. Branagh peered around Robin's bedroom door anxiously. She knew he was out but, she supposed, it was guilt. She shouldn't have even thought it. Yet…

She shut the door carefully behind her and made her way across to his wardrobe. Taking a deep breath she opened the door – nothing. Just a couple of school shirts and Robin's collection of T-shirts gradiating from black to blacker. She sighed. What had she been expecting? An axe and a severed head?

Dropping down onto the edge of Robin's bed Mrs. Branagh caught sight of the mirror. There was nothing in it, none of the faces or voices Robin had been in tears about the week before. She was just being paranoid. All Robin needed was a good night's sleep. Just because BBC news had said the police were looking a "_dark haired youth, tall, dressed all in black. Described as gothic in appearance and wearing a distinctive long leather jacket"_ didn't mean it was _Robin_. Plenty of boys in Stokely looked like that.

Surely.

She stood to leave when she caught sight of something from the corner of her eye. It looked like a jacket cuff. Stooping down she peered under Robin's bed and felt her blood run cold. Mrs. Branagh tugged at the bundle, pulling it out into the light and unwrapping it. It was Robin's coat, the one she hadn't seen him wear for weeks. The sleeve was scorched and full of holes. As she moved it a bundle of cotton fell to the floor.

It was a T-shirt; the one Robin had worn to bed on Saturday. Swallowing she picked it up with the tips of her fingers, dreading what she might see but unable to leave it alone. She dropped it again, holding one trembling hand to her mouth.

Blood. It was covered in _blood_.

* * *

'_So You Think You're Losing Your Mind'_, Robin turned the book over in his hands and frowned. He _knew_ he was losing his mind. Still, it had been the best Stokely Library had had to offer.

"Branagh-o!"

Robin tried to shove it in his bag, but he wasn't quick enough. Davis grabbed it from his hand, "Look at this, boys! Branagh needs help working out if he's a nutcase!"

Watson looked him up and down, "Stark raving bonkers. That help, mate?"

"I'm not your mate!" Robin wrenched the book from Davis and jammed it in his bag. He didn't have time for this. He had seen the news this morning, he had to get back and get rid of those clothes. All night he had lain awake, still in Ian and Paul's room, too terrified to shut his eyes. He couldn't remember it, could scarcely remember the night at all. But, _it_ was right, why else would he have gone to bed in pyjamas and woken up fully dressed, soaking wet and covered in blood?

"Too fucking right you ain't, Branagh!" Price lurched for him and Robin _ran_. "Get him!"

He was no match for Price and crew at the best of times, and he had barely slept or eaten for weeks. By the time the park railings came into view it felt like his lungs were on fire. He pounded down to the gates, rattling them desperately. Thick chains were wrapped around the bars, keeping them closed, a poster wired to the scrollwork telling him the park would be closed all half term to keep "_undesirables_" out. There was a photograph of a swan underneath with 'R.I.P' in thick black lettering.

"There he is!"

In desperation Robin grabbed hold of the railings, and with a strength only provided by adrenaline, hauled himself up and over. He collapsed on the other side, hissing as his ankle twisted underneath him. He tried to get up, only for pain to flash white-hot across his senses and sending him sprawling back against the grass. Watson was already clambering over, dropping down with considerably more elegance than he had.

Suddenly there was a scream, _a real scream_, and both he and Watson looked up in horror.

"Call an ambulance!" Watson yelled, the colour draining from his face. "Drew, call a fucking ambulance!"

Robin just gaped, too shocked to do anything else. It wouldn't make any difference; the spiked railing had pierced straight through his back. Price was dead.

* * *

"I always feel like I'm forgetting something you know, like it's just out of reach."

"That," Mr. Branagh smiled knowingly at his passenger, "is commonly known as middle age. You'll get used to it."

Kurt shook his head, "I'm still up for helping out with the Scout troop though, if the offer stands. It'll be nice to get back into it."

"We could always use an extra pair of hands," Mr. Branagh assured. "You know what boys are like – rowdy." He frowned, "What's going on here?"

As they pulled in to the driveway Mrs. Branagh came rushing towards them.

"Elizabeth? What's happening?"

Mina came over and joined her, wrapping an arm around her friend's shoulder. "They want to speak to Robin."

* * *

"Okay, let's start again. This says your mobile phone rang at 3:59am and you answered it. We know it was Ingrid Count. What did she say?"

"I _don't_ know!" Robin pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, shoulders shaking.

Gethin sighed, folding his arms as he watched the interview through the viewing window. "We're not going to get anywhere tonight, the kid's in shock." He looked away; he had been one of the first on the scene at Stokely Park. Had had to break the news to Richard Price's mother, tell her that her fourteen-year-old son was dead. It was the sort of thing that never got any easier.

"We'll be better off letting him go home and starting again tomorrow," Manju nodded, "anything he says in this state won't stand up in court anyway."

"I really don't want it to be him, Manju. I really don't." He looked at her with tired eyes. "_Thirteen_ years old."

* * *

"I wish it had been him on that fence!"

Chloe sobbed, loud enough to be heard upstairs.

"Your brother's ill, Ian. He needs our help."

"He is _not_ my brother. As far as I'm concerned, he is dead!"

Robin swiped at his eyes, pulling his knees closer to his chest. He wished it had been him too. At the police station they'd told him how he had been sighted walking past Mrs. Clarke's house at half past four in the morning, grinning all over his face like a lunatic. He couldn't remember it. They said that Ingrid had rung him, that he had spoken to her, that earlier that day he had been to the castle to say goodbye to Vlad. He couldn't remember any of it.

The thought of Vlad made him cry harder. If Vlad ever found about this the other boy would hate him, he was sure. Vlad would sooner die than hurt _anything_.

"That's because Vladdy's a coward."

A hand touched his shoulder and Robin jerked away, crawling backwards towards the wall. "Y-you're not in the mirror."

"Give the boy a gold star!" He smirked, sitting cross-legged on the carpet opposite him, leaning forward with his chin in his hands, elbows resting on his knees. "Awfully kind of you to let me out yesterday, it was getting… restrictive. And, I held up my side of the bargain too, didn't I? He won't bother you anymore."

Robin shook his head, heart hammering. "Why won't you leave me alone? I just want you to leave me alone!"

"Robin," He said, so like Vlad yet so different, the tone darker, harsher. "What sort of friend would I be if I left you alone now? Tomorrow they're going to come for you, and they're going to lock you up, and then it'll just be me and you. _Forever_."

"No." Robin hauled the box of stuff he'd taken from the castle out from under his bed, searching for the 'priceless heirloom' he'd found stuffed down the side of Vlad's dad's favourite armchair. "No!"


	8. Chapter 8

"I can't wait for tonight! I hear they've got some _fresh_ specimens." Za'ir grinned, licking at his fangs lecherously. It really didn't have the effect Za'ir was going for, not with his clunky glasses and pocket calculator. Still Jan slapped his shoulder in agreement, and Vlad settled for stirring his spoon around his stew restlessly. They were supposed to practice biting tonight. He was afraid he wouldn't be able to control himself once it was there, in front of him.

Georg, who had yet to exhibit any sign of vampirism, sighed. "It's alright for you; you'll all whiz through it and get to go have fun. I'm never going to pass the stupid hypnotism test."

Jan smirked mischievously, "Don't worry; Vlad probably won't either, he'll be too worried he might _damage_ them!"

"What do you mean?" Vlad frowned at the other boy.

Za'ir answered for him, putting on a fair approximation of Professor Baryshnikov's accent, "The breather has but a simple mind. It bends eagerly to the will of the vampire – and yet!" Jan banged his fist against the table in imitation of Baryshnikov's favourite way of ensuring they were listening, "We must know our own power! One slip and they are forever reduced to the gibbering of a madman. Fascinating, boys, is it not?" He stared into space, tugging at an imaginary beard, "Fascinating."

Georg and Jan fell about laughing but Vlad felt unsettled. He'd never heard that before. He thought of all the times Robin had been hypnotised. It didn't bear thinking about that it might have hurt Robin in some way.

Georg took in Vlad's maudlin expression, "Come on misery guts, cheer up! Why don't you ask Dabrowski if you can bring that little vamp you keep scrawling love notes to?" Georg smirked and held a hand to his forehead in a 'woe is me' pose, "_Without you there is darkness all around me, in my dreams there is only one face I see_."

Jan shook his head, "I know they're a bit backwards in Trans-Siberia, but Vlad, seriously?"

Vlad pushed his bowl away, steadfastly ignoring the others' sniggers and Andrei's knowing gaze. Sometimes this place really sucked.

* * *

"Look at _this_," PC Sharon Damer held the sketchbook open for her colleague, careful not to smudge the graphite with her gloved fingers. The entire room was giving her the creeps; horrid drawings of vampires and monsters staring down at her, not to mention the dark stains all over the carpet and the bloody fingerprints on the far wall.

PC Darren Brown shook his head, "And they say you can't tell. What sort of kid keeps a knife like that in his room for a start?"

Sharon shrugged uncomfortably. They were still waiting for word back from the hospital that the boy was going to come round. She imagined finding her little brother, the same age as him, dragging a blade across his wrists and shuddered. When she had been thirteen her only concerns had been whether or not Scott 'Five' had a girlfriend, what flavour chapstick to buy and how to get Matt Pattison from 10G to acknowledge her existence.

"If he was mine," Darren went on, "I'd have brought him in long before now. The DI reckons that he did it to impress this Ingrid Count, chose that poor woman to upset her boyfriend. But I'll tell you what I think," He looked at her seriously, "some people don't need a reason, they're just born evil."

Looking around the room Sharon couldn't help but disagree, nobody just went out and killed, there was always a reason. This had been about more than a brush-off by some girl he must have always known he'd never have a chance with, she was sure of it.

* * *

"I don't want to see him! Look, I'm glad he's not dead but, that's it. I don't want anything to do with him."

Paul's voice drifted through the open door and Robin clenched his eyes shut. Why hadn't it worked? _It_ had sneered at him, even as he had the dagger to his wrist; telling him he didn't have the nerve, could never go through with it. Maybe it was right. If he had pushed harder, deeper, he wouldn't have had to wake up.

He heard the door shut and tensed as the bed dipped next to him, a hand reaching out to touch his shoulder. "Robin?"

"Mam?" He turned to face her slowly, afraid to see the inevitable disgust in her eyes.

To his surprise she stroked his forehead, tearful but not accusing, "It's going to be okay. I'm here for you." Her voice dropping to a whisper she went on, "They won't find _anything_."

"But I did it, mam. _I did it_."

"I know." Mrs. Branagh pulled him closer carefully, so as not to disturb his IV drips, letting him sob into her shoulder. "I know," she rubbed a hand across his back, fighting tears of her own, "but I still love you. I'll always love you."

* * *

"Vladimir Dracula?" Professor Baryshnikov read out, peering over the rim of his reading glasses at the crowd of boys.

Taking a fortifying breath Vlad stepped forward, glancing nervously at the girl being brought over. He could already hear her quickened heartbeat; smell the tang of fear in her blood. Concentrating he clenched his fingernails into his palm; he was going to take the specified three mouthfuls then let go and hand her back to Frau. Scholz. He was.

"You understand what we're looking for?"

"Yes, Professor."

Andrei had spent all afternoon letting him practice his '_optimum fang angle_' and '_display of dominance (character of the individual shall be taken into consideration; dominant behaviour for one may not translate to another)_' on his neck. He had protested at first; not only was Andrei not actually alive, he also smelt disconcertingly of Ms. Valenti's - his new biology teacher - perfume. But the prospect of graduating sooner had quickly won out.

Granny Westenra might think she had control over his every action until he turned sixteen, but she was wrong. The second he got his hands on that certificate he'd be a free vampire, at liberty to do whatever he wanted.

He was just about to break skin when the girl screamed, fighting against his hold, her shoulder bashing him in the nose. He grimaced - they wouldn't overlook _that_ - before realising that it had been the result of something more than his unpolished technique.

"Now there's something I never thought I'd see. My brother acting like a vampire."

Vlad wheeled round, gaping in shock at the scene in front of him,

"Ingrid!"

* * *

"You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mentioned when questioned something you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?"

Mrs. Branagh watched as Robin nodded fearfully. She felt the weak pressure against her hand increase and she squeezed back, trying to reassure him. He needed her now more than he ever had.

DI Turner spared her an apologetic glance, shifting slightly as if he found the whole process uncomfortable. Mrs. Branagh reflected that he probably did. Who wouldn't? To Robin he said,

"When the doctor says you're well enough we'll take you to the police station, so you can make a formal statement."

"Will-" Robin started, voice so quiet both Mrs. Branagh and DI Turner had to lean in closer to hear him, "Will everyone know it was me?"

"Not for now," DI Turner shook his head, "Only those who need to know."

Whether it was relief, or realisation that this was really happening, Mrs. Branagh didn't know but Robin clung to her in response, sobbing. DI Turner gave her a stiff nod and left the room. "It'll be okay," She soothed, knowing it was a lie. In the end it didn't matter that she had destroyed the evidence. Robin had confessed and they _had_ to lock him up.

As Robin cried himself out against her chest, repeating over and over again that Vlad could never find out what he'd done, she conceded that she did understand the _why_ behind the police's actions. It just didn't make it any easier to deal with.

* * *

"It's _Countess Dracula_ to you."

"Look," Vlad licked his lips nervously, "Why don't we just talk about this sensibly?" Ingrid pressed the stake into his dad's chest harder, her other hand clenched in his hair, and Vlad held his hands out, "Or not! Just – stop doing that!"

Ingrid smirked and pushed the Count back into the arms of a man who looked more giant than vampire. Vlad swallowed and wished he knew what to do, how to make the dozens of vampires Ingrid had brought with her let go of everyone. If it weren't for Andrei's hands on his shoulders he got the feeling it would _his_chest Ingrid had that stake pressed up against.

"I don't take orders from a _Wimpire_, Vlad. You know that." Smirking she flung her arms out wide and looked around the room, "Have you told all your little friends the truth? I bet you haven't, have you?"

"Truth about what?" He managed to stutter.

She ignored him and held a leather bound journal high above her head with one hand. Vlad groaned under his breath: she had his diary.

"I bet you haven't told them how," She held the now open book to her face and put on a babyish voice, "'_I'd sooner die a human than become a vampire_.'" A gasp went around the room and Vlad pulled a face; that was unfair, reading it out of context like that. He remembered writing it – '_I'd sooner die a human than become a vampire __**and bite Robin**_.'

"Or," she went on, "_'The Council are idiots; __**why **__can't we be with friends with breathers? I wish I were a breather_.'" Vlad shrugged slightly, he didn't really have any excuse for that one. Before she could say anything else he flung his arms out in exasperation,

"Alright! What do you want!"

"It's very simple, Vlad." She snapped her fingers and a swarthy vampire with long, unkempt, hair rushed forward and handed her a scroll and a quill. "I want you to declare yourself unfit to rule, and sign the title over to me."

Vlad stared at her incredulously. "You know I can't do that!"

Ingrid moved closer to him, leaning in to whisper in his ear, "You forget that it's not just daddy who'll get a stake through the chest if you don't. Robin sends his best wishes."

"You wouldn't!"

Ingrid shrugged. "There's really no saying what I might do, is there?"

Vlad made to grab her but Andrei pulled him back, carefully pitching a whisper for his ears alone, "Sign it. It won't be legally binding." Vlad nodded, eyes wide. Trying to keep his voice level he said,

"Fine, give it here."

"I knew you'd see things my way," Ingrid sneered at him, handing him the quill. She held one manicured finger to the empty line, "Just there."

Avoiding his dad's disbelieving gaze, Vlad went to the nearest table for something to write against. The quill was almost touching the vellum when he screamed, dropping it and clutching his hand to his chest for a long moment. Cautiously he held the hand in front of his face, wriggling his fingers; there didn't seem to be any permanent damage.

"Stop messing about!" Ingrid moved to his side, looming over him threateningly.

Reluctantly he picked the quill back up and tried again, only for the same thing to happen.

"I don't believe it!" She hissed at him, shoving him backwards and wrenching the quill from his hand. "Although I should have known, just _look_ at you! You always were useless!" Screaming in frustration she snapped the quill and stamped her foot. "You haven't merged with your reflection!"

Muttering and gasping filled the room and Vlad looked around in confusion. Professor Baryshnikov rushed over to him with a mirror to try and prove her claim. There was a tense silence as the old vampire poked and prodded at him and chanted something Vlad couldn't understand to the mirror, pausing only to mutter '_fascinating_' at regular intervals.

Eventually he stood and addressed their audience, "There is nothing in the mirror." Vlad grinned in victory, only for it to be wiped off his face with his next words, "Neither has the boy merged with it." Baryshnikov tugged at his beard thoughtfully, "I have never seen anything like it; his other self has not even attempted the merger."

Vlad sat silently, taking it in. He had thought that he hadn't changed because he had been powerful enough to subdue the reflection, to push it down deep within himself. So deep he had fainted at having killed a kitten. He shook his head. How could he have been so stupid! With a sudden start he looked up at Ingrid,

"But if it's not in me, and it's not in the mirror…" He swallowed. "_Where _is it!"


	9. Chapter 9

**BBC News: Sunday, 6 April 2008**

_Police charge schoolboy_

_A 13-year-old boy has been charged with the murder of a South Wales pensioner._

_Enid Clarke, 82, was found dead at her home in Upper Stokely last Sunday. On Wednesday it was confirmed by Stokely and District Police that her killer had removed her heart and attempted to drain her blood. Police warned that her attacker was "dangerous" and urged the public to come forward with any information._

_As a result of these appeals a witness came forward on Thursday afternoon. Described as "gothic" in appearance the youth, who cannot be named for legal reasons, is due to appear in court tomorrow in connection with the incident._

* * *

**Daily Mirror: Monday, 7 April 2008**

_Killer 'Vampire' Is Still At School_

"_I don't know," the chilling answer. The question? "Why?" Why, on March 30, did you break into the home of an elderly grandmother? Why did you then proceed to mutilate her, to carve out her heart and drink her blood?_

_This confession is all the more shocking for the fact it was made by a 13-year-old BOY. Youth crime has been a growing problem in Stokely, South Wales – as it has been across the country – for years, but residents are said to be stunned by this latest development._

_His victim, 82-year-old Enid Clarke, was butchered to death in her own home on March 30. Stokely and District Police pulled out all the stops in an attempt to uncover the killer responsible for a crime described by Det Insp Gethin Turner as "grotesque"._

_The teenager will appear at Stokely Youth Court later today._

* * *

**Sky News: Monday, 7 April 2008**

_Teen Admits Murder_

_A Welsh schoolboy has admitted to the murder of grandmother, Enid Clarke._

_The 13-year-old, who is too young to be named, today appeared at Stokely Youth Court. Wearing black trousers, trainers and a black hooded sweatshirt the defendant was excused from sitting in the dock and instead sat next to his mother at the back of the court room._

_Mrs. Clarke's body was found on March 30, she died from multiple stab wounds. Her heart had been removed from her chest and her blood drained into a saucepan. Speaking only to confirm his name, age and address the teenager pleaded guilty to the offence._

_Judge Mr. Justice Charles Bambridge remanded the boy, daubed 'vampire boy' by the popular press, into secure local authority accommodation and committed the case to the Crown Court._

* * *

**Daily Mail: Tuesday, 8 April 2008**

_Vampire Boy Sobs In Court_

_The 'vampire' killer of devoted grandmother, Enid Clarke, was yesterday remanded into custody._

_Too young to be named and shamed, the thug SOBBED as judge Mr. Justice Charles Bambridge told him what he had done was "very wicked". At just 13-years-old the boy, a resident of Stokely, South Wales, is described by classmates and neighbours as "weird" and "unnerving"._

_Mrs. Clarke had fallen asleep in her favourite armchair, following a visit from friend Betty Powys, 79, when the boy used a spare key, kept under the doormat for emergencies to creep up on her._

_Once inside the yob stabbed the pensioner 16 times then carved out her heart. Still not satisfied the boy, well known locally for his interest in the "gothic" subculture, proceeded to DRINK her blood._

_Shockingly he then contrived to 'find' the body with his brother the next day. A teacher at the boy's school told us: "No, I'm not surprised it was him. Shocked, yes, but surprised? We have had to speak to his parents about his vampire obsession on a number of occasions."_

_The boy will appear before Cardiff Crown Court on Wednesday._

* * *

**The Stokely Chronicle: Tuesday, 7 April 2008**

_Mum blames 'vampire boy' for death of her 'angel'_

_The mother of a boy killed in a schoolboy prank gone wrong has today described the so-called 'vampire boy' as a "monster"._

_Tracy Price, 32, of Halton Court, Lower Stokely, received the news that every mother fears on Friday afternoon. Her son Richard, 14, had been enjoying a teachers training day along with the other pupils of Stokely Grammar School. In the morning he and friends Andrew Davis and Thomas Watson, both of Bryn Crescent, Upper Stokely, visited Stokely leisure centre, blissfully unaware of the tragedy to come._

_Later, on their way into Stokely town centre, the boys ran into the 13-year-old who has been nicknamed 'vampire boy' by the press. The youth, who cannot be named because of his involvement in the Enid Clarke case, goaded the boys into giving chase._

_At Stokely Park, currently closed following the callous murder of one of its beloved swans, the teenager scaled the railings and yelled encouragement for the other boys to do the same. In a cruel twist of fate it was Richard Price, described by his mother as "a rough diamond, the light of my life", who was impaled on the park's fence._

_Officials have called for the removal of the dangerous railings to prevent any similar incidents but Mrs. Price is adamant as to who is to blame. Speaking to our reporter she said: "This boy, this evil thug, lured my Richard to his death. I'm the first to admit that Richard wasn't perfect, but he didn't deserve this. He was a loyal friend, and a loving son. I hope this child's parents are ashamed of themselves. They've raised a monster."_

_Tributes have been flooding into Richard's Bebo page, one reads: "Rich u wer a top m8, the very best. U wer always ther 4 me. Im gna miss u big time." Another emotional tribute left by Richard's girlfriend, Kelsey Peterson, said: "its only bn 2 days n i miss u so much bbz. i wish i cud av u bk just 1 last tym. I'll neva 4get u. R.I.P. xxxxxxxxxxxxxx"_

_His mother wrote: "I'll miss u 4eva bbz, my beautiful bby boy. the only thing that keeps me sane is knowing ur safe now in heaven with nana lloyd. xxx"_

_A spokesman for Stokely and District Police said: "This was a tragic accident, and our thoughts are with Mrs. Price and her family. However as no crime was committed, there can be no question of charges being brought."_

_Richard's funeral will be held at Holy Trinity Church, Lower Stokely on Saturday. His tormenter is due to appear at Cardiff Crown Court tomorrow in connection with the death of Mrs. Clarke._

* * *

**The Guardian: Wednesday, 9 April 2008**

_Boy, 13, confesses to murder_

_A boy, 13, will appear before Cardiff Crown Court today accused of murdering Enid Clarke, 82, who was killed in her own home on 30 March. Her daughter, Carol, has released an emotional statement ahead of the funeral to be held next Thursday._

"_You can never replace a mother," she said. "Prison is too good for him."_

* * *

**The Sun: Wednesday, 9 April 2008**

_MONSTER CAGED_

_- Boy, 13, pleads guilty to murder of widow, 82._

_Pensioner Enid Clarke was brutally stabbed to death as she dozed in her favourite armchair by a deranged schoolboy Cardiff Crown Court heard today._

_The grandmother pleaded with her attacker for mercy as she was savagely beaten and stabbed 16 times. Intent on more violence the yob used the knife to hack out her heart, draining her blood into a saucepan and DRINKING it._

_Det Insp Gethin Turner of Stokely and District Police has described the case as "the most harrowing I have ever worked on". Officers were initially reluctant to believe someone so young could have done something so "wicked". At one stage of the investigation a constable was even ordered to APOLOGISE to the boy for treating him as a "criminal"._

_Suspicion instead fell upon Enid's teenaged grandson, Will Clarke, who had recently left the country to be with his girlfriend, Ingrid Count, 16. The boy, devastated by the news, contacted police on Tuesday and was eliminated from inquiries._

_Police were at a loss until a witness came forward on Thursday with a sighting of a "gothic" youth in the early hours of Sunday morning. By Saturday evening the teenager, a pupil at a local school, had confessed to the gruesome murder. When asked why he had done it his only answer was a chilling, "I don't know."_

_Wearing black trousers, a white shirt and a black tie for the occasion the thug betrayed little emotion as Judge Mr. Justice Edmund Morgan remanded him back into secure local authority accommodation. Clutching at his mother's hand the so-called "Vampire Boy" was told his actions left the court with no other option._

_His mother defended her son's actions, saying he had been bullied and "tormented" at school and was "traumatised" by the recent departure of his best friend for Romania. Carol Clarke, daughter of Mrs. Clarke, scoffed at these claims, saying: "Loads of kids are bullied, I was bullied. I didn't then take it upon myself to go out and murder a defenceless old lady."_

_The Stokely Chronicle, the boy's local paper, yesterday told of his involvement with the death of another youngster, 14-year-old Richard Price. "A monster" is how the child's distraught mother described the defendant. No charges have been brought._

* * *

**The Western Mail: Thursday, 10 April 2008**

_Enid Killer Cries… For Himself_

_The calculating killer of Stokely pensioner, Enid Clarke, broke down in his secure cell upon arrival yesterday._

_Just hours earlier the boy, who cannot be named, was cold and emotionless as the judge at Cardiff Crown Court remanded him back into secure local authority accommodation._

_Once away from the cameras the youth sobbed for his mother._

_The 13-year-old will be held at Hillside Secure Unit until the case comes to full trial. Judge Mr. Justice Edmund Morgan set a preliminary date for October 11. It is expected to last ten days._


	10. Chapter 10

"See this pen? If I wanted to I could stab him in the face with it."

Robin shrank away from the pen in question, eyes wide and nervous.

"I don't even need a weapon. I could use my bare hands and break his arm. Just like that." Callum snapped his fingers for added emphasis and Robin leaned so far to the side he almost fell out of his seat.

"But, I wouldn't 'cos I'm being rehabilitated, innit?"

"Riiiight," Martin said, looking almost as unnerved as Robin felt, "So you're in favour of the petition. How about you Robin, do you think that we should be allowed to use weights in the gym? Or are they too dangerous?"

Before he could say anything Danielle, who thought she knew everything about everything, cut in, "What are you asking him for? It's not like he's gonna use them!"

"This is a house meeting, Dani." Martin's tone was placating and, Robin couldn't help but feel, a little patronising as he went on, "That means _everyone_ has a say."

Danielle picked up on it too, storming to her feet, "Don't patronise me!"

"Sit down."

"No!"

Callum glared up at her, "Stop acting like an idiot and sit down."

"Yeah, just let him answer so we can get this over with," added Ashleigh, tossing her long dark hair over her shoulder.

The next instant Danielle had launched herself at the other girl, yanking at handfuls of hair and screaming. In the next she was being pulled off and restrained, kicking and struggling all the while.

"Come on," Martin was up on his feet, herding the crowd towards the door, "everyone else, back to your rooms."

"Aw, that's not fair, mun!"

"Nothing is."

"Do we really 'ave to go back?" Robin asked, pitching it for Martin alone.

"'Fraid so," Martin clapped a hand on his shoulder and steered him down the corridor. Unlocking the door he led him in, "We've been through this before kiddo; there's nothing in here. No rats, no killer spiders, no _ghosts_."

"Ha, yeah, I know that." It didn't sound at all convincing.

Martin smiled encouragingly at him and locked the door, leaving him alone. He felt something brush against the back of his neck and shivered. Reluctantly he turned around; that had been a lie. No matter where he went, he was never _alone_.

* * *

"Mam! Why 'aven't you ironed my shirt!" Ian held it up, pulling a face. "I can't wear it like this!"

"I think," Chloe appeared in the kitchen doorway before Mrs. Branagh had chance to answer, "We've got a bigger problem."

Mrs. Branagh looked at Ian who just shrugged before they both followed Chloe outside, standing back on the driveway to survey the latest graffitied slurs. 'Rot in hell murdurin skum' scrawled across the garage door in red spray paint.

"Charming, isn't it?" Chloe folded her arms across her chest.

"Aw," Paul joined them, shaking his head, "not again! When are they gonna realise that he doesn't even live here?"

"Thing is, bruv," Ian sighed, "this is just the start. As soon as they find him guilty his name will be everywhere. They'll be coming from all over, torches and pitchforks at the ready."

Mrs. Branagh bit her lip, "They won't scare us away." Glancing around the street, at the twitching net curtains, she went on, "I don't know who would do such a thing."

Chloe took in the poor spelling and narrowed her eyes. She had a pretty good idea.

* * *

"Come on Tommo, hurry up!" Kurt mock swatted the boy over the head with his clipboard as he clambered into the coach. "We've all been waiting for you."

Kurt smiled as he got a grunted "sorry" for his efforts, doing one final head count before nodding at the driver, and taking his own seat next to Mr. Branagh. The other man looked up at him bleakly and Kurt found himself asking, for easily the tenth time that morning, "Are you sure you want to do this? Me and Steve can manage."

"A scout doesn't let his troop down." Mr. Branagh looked away, "Life has to go on, doesn't it? It's not like I'm any use to him anyway."

Shifting uncomfortably – was there a good way to react to that? – Kurt asked quietly, "Was he any better this week?"

Mr. Branagh shook his head. "It just keeps getting harder and harder to leave him there." He gave him a bitter smile, "They're assessing him again tomorrow, trying to prove once and for all he's unfit to stand trial."

"They'll know what they're doing," Kurt said in a way he hoped was comforting. "If he needs treatment, they'll make sure he gets it."

"I just wish I knew where I went wrong with him."

Awkward silence descended and Kurt was glad when the other man turned to stare out of the window. It was going to be a long weekend.

* * *

"You're not concentrating."

"What," Vlad scowled at Andrei irritably, "do you expect? I've been up since yesterday afternoon!" He slammed his palms down onto the table, knocking over the meditation crystals. "I don't want to find the stupid thing anyway. I like being me!"

"As I keep telling you, boy," Krone peered down at him disapprovingly, "it's not a question of what you _want_. Your sister has the support of half the vampiric world. Unless you find, and merge with, your reflection," she leaned in closer and hissed, "you're dust."

"The old hag has a point, Vlad," the Count appeared next to him, crouching down on the other side of him, ignoring Krone's malicious glare, "as much as I love being in hiding with my mother-in-law and an imbecile –"

"Oh, Master, you do care!"

The Count pulled a face but continued, "Somebody needs to crush your sister like the vermin she is."

"Dad!"

"Yes, yes, alright. Somebody needs to show her the error of her ways so we can welcome her back into the family bosom. Satisfied?"

Vlad glared back, "I could talk her round if we found her, I know I could! I don't see why I have to merge."

"Because nobody wants a wimpire as a leader."

"Thanks. Thanks a lot, Granny."

Andrei coughed, capturing everyone's attention. "You'll have to merge when you turn sixteen anyway. Neither of you will be able to survive separately."

"Yeah, well," Vlad ground out, mentally counting down the hours until he could go back to the Academy and only have to deal with his stupid friends and annoying teachers. "I'm not sixteen yet, am I?"

Andrei just shrugged, his perpetual calm making Vlad want to throw something at him, and said,

"It's your loss."

* * *

"Carreg, Owain; don't do that." Martin gave them a look.

"Do what?" Carreg asked, face innocent.

"You know what." Martin shook his head, sharing a look with the other staff members in the room, "Leaving Robin out."

Owain sniffed, "Not our fault if he don't speak Welsh, is it?"

"We can speak it if we want." Carreg backed him up, "It's discrimination if you say we can't. I know my rights. I'll write to the assembly."

"He's not saying you can't," Gareth sighed; he had been working with Carreg for months and knew how to deal with his fits of self-righteousness. "He's saying, stop being so spiteful. How would you feel if _you_ were sat there and couldn't understand what was being said."

"He can't half the time," Owain grinned, "he's proper thick, ain't he?"

At Gareth's warning look Carreg sighed and scowled, "Aw, alright, mun! We'll talk to little Robbie-no-mates. Happy now?"

"I'll be keeping an eye on you so mind you do."

Carreg gave him a two fingered salute as he turned away and glared at Robin. Robin shifted and offered them a strained smile. He knew Martin was only looking out for him, spent almost his entire shift trying to get him to speak to people, or get involved with whatever everyone else was doing. He just wished he wouldn't. Nine years of school had taught him that people couldn't be forced to like him.

"We weren't really being 'orrible," Owain shrugged, "we do just forget, like."

"It's alright."

"Yeah," Carreg smirked widely at him, "I bet it is. 'Cos you've got better company, 'aven't you?" At Robin's look of confusion he said, "I can hear you, you know. Through the wall. Talking to yourself."

Robin felt what little colour he had draining from his face. "I don't!" He protested.

"It's nothing to be ashamed of," Carreg glanced across the room to check nobody was listening in before continuing, "I just thought you'd be a bit more worried, what with them coming to assess you again tomorrow."

"What do you mean?" Robin looked up at the older boy in confusion.

Carreg looked back at Owain and the two shared a knowing look. Meeting Robin's gaze Carreg leaned forward a little, "You do know what they do with the nutcases, don't you?"

At Robin's silence he went on, "They take them away and lock them up."

"I'm already locked up," Robin pulled a face. "What difference does it make _where_?"

"You think _this_ is being locked up?" Owain shook his head, "If you don't pass tomorrow they're going to put you in a straightjacket."

"Yeah," grinned Carreg, "They'll put you in a tiny cell, like the size of your bed and leave you there all day and all night. They'll just push your dinner in through a flap in the door and leave you to it. It won't matter how much noise you make, how many times you hit the buzzer, nobody will come."

"You're lying!" Robin hissed. They had to be. He'd heard the staff talking about him; they all thought he would be declared unfit to stand trial. He had been starting to count on it. The thought of having to go back to the courtroom, to see all those people staring at him like he was evil, yelling abuse at his mam, terrified him. But… anything would be better than being trapped on his own with _it._

"He's not," Danielle said, putting her magazine down and sauntering over to them. "It happened to a girl at my last unit. She was a right weirdo, kept talking to herself. Crying to the staff about the scary ghosties in her cell." Robin looked away, missing the thumbs up Carreg gave her. "They came and took her away in the middle of the night, so she couldn't say goodbye to anyone. Last I heard she hanged herself."

"I – uh, I'm going to-" Robin scrambled to his feet, making straight for Martin. There was no way that could happen. He knew what he had to do. Martin looked up at him expectantly and Robin took a deep breath, "I've changed my mind. Can I go outside and play football with the other boys please?"

Martin looked at him in shock for a moment before nodding and getting up. Robin followed eagerly, trying to act like he really _wanted_to play football. If that was what it took to look normal, to stay where he was, then he'd do it.

"I can't believe it," Gareth shook his head as he watched the pair go, turning his attention to the three kids left in the room. "Martin's been trying to get him out in that yard for _weeks_."

"He just 'aven't got our touch, 'ave he?" Carreg smirked up at him and Gareth nodded thoughtfully, making a mental note to discuss it with the man later.

Maybe there was hope for the boy yet.

* * *

"What 'ave you written on yours?" Paul asked his brother, chewing on the end of his pen.

Ian shook his head, "I 'aven't. I've told them, I don't want nothing to do with him."

"Yeah, but it is his birthday." Paul put the card down and started, a little too casually, "You know, I was thinking I might go with them on Wednesday. We haven't got rugby training or anything, and it'd make mam happy."

Before Ian could tell him what he thought of the idea the phone rang and, sighing, Paul picked it up. The connection was bad but he could tell instantly it was Vlad. The boy asked for Robin and Paul pulled a face. The kid had been ringing every three days religiously and they were running out of excuses to fob him off with.

Ian held his hand out and, reluctantly, Paul handed it over.

"No, it's not Robin. It's Ian. Look, he should do this himself but he's too much of a coward –"

Paul made a grab for the phone; his mam would do her nut if Ian told Vlad what was happening. Ian used his free hand and a leg to push him back.

"He just doesn't want to speak to you anymore. What? No, I don't know why."

"Give it here!" Paul hissed, reaching for it again.

"Why would I lie about it? He hasn't spoken to you for months, has he? Just, I dunno, forget about him. He's not worth knowing anyway."

Paul made one last grab, finally managing to wrench it from Ian's grasp – only for Vlad to hang up. He looked at the handset in trepidation, "You shouldn't have done that, bruv."

Ian shrugged. "He keeps going on about how he doesn't want Vlad to find out. He won't now, will he?"

"Yeah, I suppose." Paul put the handset back and tried, and failed, to concentrate on the television. He had a bad feeling about this.


	11. Chapter 11

"Calm down," Gareth shook his head in bemusement, "We all know this is only a formality. Nobody would make that kid stand trial."

Before Martin could answer the door was opened. Julie sighed and flopped down into an empty seat, "He wants to speak to you, Mart."

When he got to the examination room the psychiatrist was busy packing up his briefcase. "Charles Anderton," the man held his hand out and Martin shook it.

"Martin Bailey."

Anderton nodded, "I won't beat about the bush. There is nothing wrong with the boy. A little stressed, certainly, but that's to be expected given the circumstances. In my professional opinion he is perfectly fit to stand trial."

Martin looked at the man in disbelief, "Are we talking about the same kid? Paranoid, delusional, hasn't slept more than an hour at a time since he got here?"

"I've seen his files and, after speaking to him, I'm convinced it's nothing too serious. Most of his _symptoms_," Anderton stressed in a way that made Martin narrow his eyes, "can be attributed to old fashioned attention seeking."

"Attention seeking?" Martin asked incredulously, shaking his head. If hysterical fits about faces in the wall and ice cold fingers scrabbling at his back were attention seeking, he was on a salary that stretched to more than a bed-sit and a bus pass.

"Yes, attention seeking," Anderton gave him a withering look. "A clear pattern to his behaviour is discernable. Whenever he has to spend time on his own, or do something he doesn't want to, he gets upset, you come running and he avoids another unwanted situation." Anderton closed the clasps on his briefcase, "The police had the same problem. He just doesn't want to confront what he's done."

"Besides," Anderton went on, "He even admitted to me that this "voice"," He hooked his fingers in the air, "he's been hearing doesn't exist. He's been making it up."

Anderton moved to the door and Martin struggled to keep his tone level, "Did it occur to you that he might have been lying?"

He didn't get an answer.

* * *

"Vlad?"

"Go away!" Vlad buried his face into his pillow, trying to muffle his crying. He already knew he was late for his meditation session, it didn't mean he was going to do anything about it.

His coffin lid opened and Vlad squinted up at the older vampire.

"It might help to take your mind off it."

Vlad sat up abruptly, glaring at Andrei. "Of course," he swiped at his eyes roughly, "because what's the one thing that always makes me feel better? Oh yeah, that's it, trying to become an evil, unfeeling _monster_!"

Andrei shrugged slightly and it was all Vlad could do not to swing for him.

"Perhaps," Andrei started, staring up some point on the far wall, "this is for the best."

"What!" Vlad hissed. How could Robin wanting nothing to do with him be for the best? It felt like something was broken inside of him.

"This was going to have to happen at some point. It's better now when you still have reasonable control over your emotions."

Andrei had a point. Vlad just didn't want to acknowledge it. Instead he put into words what he had been thinking ever since he'd hung up on Ian. "Why doesn't he want to speak to me? What's wrong with me?" He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes and tried not to think about how he should have seen this coming. He'd written to Robin every single week since he had managed to work out how to get around Madam Dabrowski's prefect system, rang the Branagh house at every opportunity. What had he got in return? Nothing.

"I know it hurts now Vlad," Andrei said quietly, making Vlad cry harder, "but it will get better. I promise you."

* * *

"Have you heard back from Tanybryn's head teacher yet?"

Tommo squirmed uncomfortably at Mr. Branagh's well-meant questioning. He had been feeling guilty from the second he had agreed to go along with the latest 'let's get even with Branagh' scheme.

"If you need a reference I'll write you one. I still say it was extreme of Mrs. Harker to expel you for that."

"Yeah," Tommo muttered, keeping his eyes on the rounders game. What Mr. Branagh didn't know was that his "scuffle" in the corridor had actually resulted in a broken arm and two missing teeth for the other boy. He figured it was probably better if it stayed that way.

Before Mr. Branagh had chance to say anything else it was his turn to bat and Tommo stepped forward, eager to escape the older man's concern.

"Come on, Tommo!" Kurt yelled from across the field. Gripping the bat tighter he swung it with all his might, watching as it flew wide – and smacked Kurt across the temple. The man hit the deck and Tommo grimaced. Today really wasn't going well for him.

* * *

"Robin, you're ignoring me."

Robin bit his lip and resisted the urge to hit the buzzer, to get somebody to come and check up on him, to chase it away. He had told the psychiatrist that he'd made it all up, that he just didn't want to be on his own. Only half of it had been a lie.

"Friends don't ignore each other."

"You don't exist. If I ignore you, you'll go away." Robin said as matter of factly as he could, twisting his hands together in his lap. His heart was thumping in his chest in fear and his palms were sweaty. "I'm not afraid of you."

He shut his eyes so he wouldn't have to see those horrid black eyes, the sneer in place of the smile Vlad always had for him. Cold fingers wrapped around his arm, digging deep into his skin.

"You really ought to be."

* * *

"Grub's up!"

Kurt plastered a fake smile on his face, "I'll be there in a minute!" Rubbing at his temple he turned his concentration back to his mobile phone, grimacing at the headache-worsening 'hold' music.

Finally a human voice sounded down the line, "Hello, you have reached the headquarters of the Slayer's Guild. How can we help you?"

"This is Special Agent Kurt Muller, tactical division. I need to speak to the Chief of Staff. Urgently!"

"If you could hold for just one moment, Sir."

The music started up again and Kurt groaned. He'd been out of operation for _months_; there was no time to lose.


	12. Chapter 12

"The defence are going to rip us to shreds," DI Gethin Turner shook his head. "We've got nothing to place him at the scene; no blood, no hair, no fingerprints, no murder weapon." He sighed, "All we've got is the word of a mentally unstable thirteen-year-old."

"Fourteen," DS Manju Bhaskar said around a sip of coffee.

"What?"

"The Branagh kid, he's fourteen today. And they've declared him fit to stand trial."

"Oh, well," Gethin said sarcastically, "problem solved. What jury _wouldn't_ convict a misdiagnosed fourteen-year-old?"

Manju just shot him a dirty look. She would be glad once this case was over.

* * *

"That's a very, er, _bright_ T-shirt, Robin." Martin took in the yellow with concern. He didn't think he had ever seen the boy in anything other than head-to-toe black.

Robin just shrugged and sat there placidly, making no attempt to eat anything on the plate in front of him.

"Your mum and dad are coming to visit you later," Martin tried again, "that'll be nice, won't it?" There was another shrug and Martin rooted in his pocket, it was time to play his ace, "I spoke to your mum last night and she gave me this," he put a slip of paper down in front of Robin. "I thought you might like to give your friend Vlad a ring. I bet he'd like to wish you happy birthday."

"No!"

Martin watched in shock as Robin shoved away from the table, eyes wild.

"I won't! You can't make me!"

Everyone else was watching closely too; he heard the word "nutcase" murmured more than once. Robin seemed oblivious, shaking and staring intently at an empty doorway. Not wanting to scare him anymore than he already was, Martin led him carefully back in the direction of his room, noticing for the first time the fresh – obviously self inflicted - bruises up the boy's forearm.

Anderton had a lot to answer for.

* * *

"_Vampire Boy to stand trial_," Jan read, spreading the newspaper across the table, "_It's not just us vamps with a taste for blood. Breather types of the British variety were shocked earlier this year when a teenager hacked an old lady to death, an attack which would have made any of our mothers proud_."

"Ugh," Za'ir pulled a face, "Why would you go for wrinkly blood? I tell you, I'm only going to bite fresh, good-looking breathers."

"You'll waste away!" Jan grinned, "There's no such thing as a good-looking breather, is there Vlad?" Jan nudged him with his elbow and Vlad managed a weak smile. Now would be just as awful a time as any other for everyone to find out that, actually, he could name a number of good-looking breathers. That one in particular had the power to reduce him to a snivelling weak-kneed wreck every time he thought of him.

He thought of what he had been doing this time last year, holed up in Robin's bedroom eating cake and listening to Robin complain about his misfortune to have a birthday in the middle of summer when 'it's hot and sunny and my mam tries to make me go outside and _enjoy_ it.' Vlad wasn't sure if the memory of the look on Robin's face as he had said it was making him want to laugh or cry.

Before the other boys had chance to pick up on it a familiar voice sounded behind them,

"What have I told you about bringing that breather-loving rubbish into my school?" Madam Dabrowski snatched the newspaper from Jan's hand and set fire to it, dropping it to the flagstone floor. "I'll see you three," she pointed at Jan, Za'ir and Georg, "in my office at breaktime. We'll see if the hot irons can't get the message across."

Vlad grimaced slightly in apology, secretly relieved beyond measure. Being the Grand High Vampire did have some perks. Dabrowski made to leave, halting at the last moment,

"I almost forgot. I have a letter for you, your _Grandness_." Vlad smirked slightly at the icy tone and waited until she had rejoined the head table, then tore at the envelope in excitement.

It would be from Robin, he just knew it. As if his best friend would really hate him so much he couldn't even bring himself to talk to him.

He scanned the letter and his good cheer drained away. _Ingrid_.

* * *

"You're completely overreacting," Anderton said in his usual brusque manner. "Perhaps I ought to give _you_ another once over."

Kurt shook his head, glaring at the man. They had never got on, even back when they had both been fresh faced rookies. "I know he's innocent, you know he's innocent. The whole damn guild knows he's innocent! I'm not going to stand by whilst you scapegoat him."

"Look," Anderton sighed, his air of superiority no less annoying than it had been five months previously, "everything is under control. _Somebody_ needs to be found guilty of this, or we'll have a full scale panic on our hands. We had a bit of a scare when they tried to get him declared unfit to stand but I've sorted that. The jury are all on the inside, the judge has been briefed."

"You're going to send a fourteen-year-old boy to prison for murder!"

"Don't be ridiculous, Muller! I've seen the boy, classic case of hypnosis induced insanity. The defence will plead diminished responsibility; the charge will be reduced to voluntary manslaughter. The judge will sentence him to the psychiatric care he needs."

"I," Anderton went on, smirking all across his face, "will be the evil cad who declared him fit for trial and pick up the media flack. With any luck it will be enough to put a stop to the brick throwing and graffiti you were so concerned about."

"Now if you'll excuse me," Anderton picked up his briefcase and smoothed down his already immaculate suit jacket, "some of us have real work to do."

Kurt glowered at his retreating back; one day – sooner rather than later, he hoped – the man would get what was coming to him.

* * *

Paul made his way down the corridor in trepidation. The place smelt weird, and the display boards adorning the walls reminded him of his old primary school. With bars and railings and endless locked doors. Mrs. Branagh smiled at him and he tried to look unmoved. He had no idea why this had seemed a good idea.

When the stony faced care worker led them into the visiting room he had to scan it twice before he picked Robin out. Paul realised, with a start, that had he passed him on the street he probably wouldn't have even recognised him. His dark hair was longer, curling over his ears and at the nape of his neck, and he had lost so much weight he looked ill and gaunt.

"Come on, Paul," his dad said in his best 'let's all pretend to be happy' voice, "This will make your brother's day."

The worst thing was, Paul thought as Robin actually – _genuinely_ - smiled at him as he sat down, it probably would.

* * *

"Chloe!" Mina smiled at her, standing back to let her into the caravan, "What a nice surprise."

Van Helsing snorted and rustled his newspaper and Mina glared at him. She opened her mouth to tell the girl to go on through, but Jonno was out of his room and struggling into his jacket before she had chance.

"I'm going out, see you later."

Mina shrugged as the door slammed shut behind the pair, moving to sit down next to her husband. "They make a lovely couple, don't they?"

"Hmmm," Van Helsing narrowed his eyes, "If you want to welcome a murdering lunatic into the family."

"_Eric_," Mina scolded, "that's nothing to do with Chloe. Besides, they haven't found him guilty yet."

Van Helsing just shook the newspaper out so she could see the front page of the Stokely Chronicle, '_School unveils tribute to Vampire Boy's unacknowledged victim_'. "Try telling that to the rest of Stokely."

* * *

"What is _he _doing here?" Ingrid hissed, "I told you to come alone."

"I tried!" Vlad protested. "He's like my shadow."

Andrei shrugged.

"Fine, whatever," Ingrid snapped. "Everyone's going to know before long anyway. I want," she pulled a face; grimacing as if the words pained her, "to call a ceasefire."

"Why?" Vlad asked suspiciously. He had known Ingrid for fourteen and a half years. She had never willingly backed down before.

"Does it matter why! I just want to!" Ingrid scowled at him, clutching at her stomach. Vlad took in her silhouette and gaped in sudden realisation,

"You're pregnant." He paused for a moment before broaching the obvious, "Is it Will's?"

Ingrid flashed her game face and Vlad shrank back slightly, "Of course it's Will's!"

"O-kay," Vlad breathed in relief as regained her self-control. "I only asked."

"I can't believe I'm having to do this," Ingrid shook her head. Meeting his gaze she went on, "I need your help."

Vlad made to hug her; this was the best news he'd had in _months_.

"Don't. _Touch_. Me." Ingrid ground out, and swept her gaze up and down in a way that made Vlad want to hide, "Or I'll see to it _you_ never get the chance to procreate. Understand?"

Nodding carefully, Vlad backed off. Ingrid never made idle threats.

* * *

"Fourteen today. A big boy now, aren't you?"

Robin refused to look up, trailing his fingertip across Vlad's elegant scrawl. He hadn't really expected Vlad to remember his birthday. Or, if he did, he hadn't expected him to bother sending a card. Not after so many months of silence. The only letters he ever got were from Chloe, awkward stilted missives to which he could never think of any more convincing response than, 'I'm okay. School's okay. Everything's okay'. If only Vlad had written to him sooner. If only Vlad hadn't gone away in the first place.

But, Vlad had.

His mam had said it had arrived over a week ago too, meaning Vlad had obviously put some thought into it. That he meant the 'I miss you' and 'you're my best friend' printed in Vlad's careful script.

"Don't worry, I'm sure he wouldn't have bothered if he'd known the truth," _it_ whispered in his ear, icy fingers stroking across his jugular. "Vladdy's not as _understanding_ as I am."

Robin jerked away, clambering under his duvet and cocooning it around him so it couldn't touch him. He could hear it laughing and he shook, telling himself over and over again that it wouldn't be for much longer. Once he got through the trial they would sentence him, and then they wouldn't keep threatening to take him away.

He'd slipped up this morning, he knew. But _Paul_ had come to visit him. That had to mean something; Paul would never have come, have told him he was looking 'half-normal', if he wasn't making a better impression.

Trying to shut out the scrabbling at the edge of his blanket he nodded to himself. He could do it.


	13. Chapter 13

"I thought you were supposed to be meditating?"

"I thought," Vlad glared over at his sister, slouching further back into the armchair in defiance, "you were supposed to be an evil vampiress. But, no, you're sat here watching Acasâ like an old woman."

Ingrid scowled back, betraying none of the embarrassment Vlad reasoned she must be feeling as the theme music for the next soppy daytime drama started up. "At least I _am_ an evil vampiress. You're still a little baby half vampire who's too scared to find his reflection."

"I'm _not_ scared!"

Ingrid raised an eyebrow and picked her book back up, '_Most Notorious Serial Killers of the British Isles'_. She was insistent that a breather name was 'what Will would have wanted.' Vlad had given up trying to dissuade her; the poor kid was going to be named after a mass murderer and that was that. He supposed whatever she chose couldn't be too much worse than 'Vladimir'. Or, now he came to think of it, 'Barry'.

"What I don't understand," Ingrid started just when Vlad had begun to hope that had been the end of the conversation, "is why it doesn't come to you now, while you're so pathetically weak." Before Vlad could protest she went on, "The more they manage to cram into your thick skull, the more chance you have of coming out on top."

She cocked her head to the side in consideration, "What do you see when you meditate?"

Vlad frowned and carefully refused to meet his sister's gaze. He thought about exactly the same thing when he was meditating as he did when he wasn't meditating. Robin. The only difference was that the Robin in his meditation dreams seemed to hate him even more than the real one, refusing to even look at him and shrinking away whenever he tried to touch him. Out loud, to his waiting audience, Vlad said one word,

"Nothing."

* * *

"Ian, you look very smart. Doesn't he look smart, Paul?"

Paul raised an eyebrow as his brother tugged at the collar of his new shirt. Chloe looked up from her breakfast, "He looks exactly the same as he did last year. The only difference is, he gets to wear a new tie."

"You want to get a job, bruv, like me." Paul gestured at his 'Stokely Sanitation' polo shirt and steel-capped work boots. "School is for girls."

"You want to get some qualifications, bruv." Ian shot back, "Work is for losers."

Grinning, Paul shook his head. It was a fair point. His GCSE results had been even worse than Perkins had predicted. Still, he was going to be rolling in it. Ian would be smirking on the other side of his face when _he_ had a car and passed his test months before Ian could even afford lessons.

Mrs. Branagh smiled at the three of them, "I'm very proud of all of you." She looked away, smile slipping, and Paul followed her gaze to the photograph of all of them – all _six_ of them – on the dresser. He pushed the rest of his breakfast away. There was nothing _quite_ like a reminder of the time he'd seen that mutilated body of that woman his little brother had supposedly murdered to make him lose his appetite.

* * *

"I don't care if I do get sent to a YOI. It's two up in there; won't be bored out of my brains all the time."

Martin shook his head slightly at Carreg's bravado, only yesterday the boy had been sobbing that he'd sooner die than get sent to a Young Offenders Institution. The younger kids all looked suitably impressed though.

"Will I get sent to one of those?" Robin asked making an effort, Martin noted happily, to eat some breakfast.

Carreg pulled a face, "Don't be stupid, mun. You're too young." Smirking slightly he went on, "You've got your own company anyway, 'aven't you? All them little voices in your head."

Robin dropped his spoon with a clatter, "Somebody might hear you!"

"I don't know what you're freaking out about," Ashleigh said, giving Robin a derisive look, "It's well cushy if you end up in the nuthouse. You can have …[?] and everything."

"But you said-"

"I said what?"

Martin did his best to look imposing, folding his arms across his chest, "I'd like to know too, Carreg. _What_ did you say?"

* * *

"I'd be careful there, Van Helstinks," Andrew Davis smirked all across his face, reveling in his new status as the most feared boy in their year. "She's probably planning where to hide your body right now."

"What's wrong, Davis?" Jonno glared back, hoping his new prefect badge was on display prominently enough, "Jealous?"

"Of her? Yeah, right, you wish."

Jonno spotted his dad making his way down the corridor and stood up straighter, "I was thinking more of the fact I actually get to speak to my girlfriend. Must be hard for you; Tommo being all the way on the other side of town."

Davis looked like he'd happily murder him himself but Kelsey nudged him.

"Everything alright here?" Van Helsing looked at them all suspiciously, "No problems?" Jonno shook his head and the bell rang, preventing his dad from probing any further. Van Helsing turned to walk away and Davis hissed,

"I'm going to break your face for that."

Jonno didn't waste any time - Davis would have to catch him first.

* * *

"Graham?" Mrs. Branagh called from the landing, carrying two mugs of tea. After a moments hesitation she pushed the door open.

"Two weeks today," Mr. Branagh said without looking up. "He'll be almost thirty by the time he gets out. He might never get out."

"We don't know that," she put the mugs down on the window sill and sat down next to her husband on – what had been – Robin's bed. The room was stark and bare, the police having confiscated much of Robin's clutter as "evidence".

Mr. Branagh shook his head. "I knew something wasn't right. I knew all that time he was spending up at the castle was a bad influence on him. I should have – put a stop to it!"

"Nobody could have known this would happen." Mrs. Branagh said placatingly, eyes drawn to the spot where they had found Robin, chalk white in a pool of his own blood, all those months ago. "Nobody."

* * *

"At the risk of sounding like a broken record," Henryk started, his eastern European accent muted with mancunian inflection, "this trial has to go without a hitch. If this kid's name hits the press it won't just be breach of anonymity we have to worry about"

"I'm sure you're all aware of the current ceasefire." There were murmurs of assent across the briefing room. "Then you'll be equally as aware of its fragility. All our intelligence suggests the new Grand High Vampire is simply biding his time. The last thing we need is something that tips that indecision into action. Kurt?"

Kurt nodded and stood, taking over from the other man, "I have irrefutable proof that, should the boy's identity get out, his _Grandness_," Kurt hooked his fingers in the air, "will stop at nothing to wreck revenge on anyone who has slighted him. It's in everyone's best interests that he remains ignorant of the entire affair."

It wasn't completely true. His 'irrefutable proof' was, in fact, a quick scan through of a letter the vampire had written Robin. A letter that read far more like the sycophantic fawning of a lovesick teenager than the bloodthirsty raving of a devious leader. Still, for the flash of fear across Anderton's smug face, a little truth-bending was more than worth it.

* * *

"So, you see, there's really nothing to be afraid of." Martin smiled at him encouragingly, gesturing at the pile of leaflets he'd brought with him, covering pretty much every FCAMHS unit in the county.

"Hear that, Robin, nothing at all. Because you're not afraid of me, are you?"

Robin scooted away, closer to both Martin and the door. "But what if I don't get sent there? What if I have to stay here?" He wasn't sure how much longer he could take it whispering and threatening him. He couldn't concentrate in lessons for the hissing in his ear. Couldn't remember anything about _that_ night other than what it told him to tell the never ending stream of people he had to attend long, uncomfortable meetings with.

"Then we'll do everything we can to help you, you know that."

He looked away; he didn't really see how being under constant supervision helped him. There was nothing he could hurt himself with, no way out. It just meant he had to try that much harder to look _normal_.

"Robin," Martin started, trying to follow Robin's gaze and work out what he was staring at. "We do our best, but we can't read your mind. You have to be honest with us. I know you're scared but, really, it will help to talk about it."

_It_ folded its arms and smirked, as if to tell him that it knew he didn't have the guts to tell anyone how cracked up he really was. That, sometimes, he thought it hadn't been _him_ who had murdered her. How, in his dreams, he half remembered a whole vampire world, with Vlad at its centre. That, at times, he was almost certain that Vlad – whose only aim in life had ever been to be as normal and unassuming as possible – had tried to bite him, fangs flashing and eyes darkening in a way that, in spite of everything, didn't scare him.

It was the thought of Vlad that finally sealed the decision. It wasn't Vlad's fault that his mind had chosen him to latch onto. Swallowing, he asked, "If they do send me away, will you come and visit me?"

Martin smiled back at him, "If you want me to. Now what do you say we go get dinner, and then we can talk about it."

Robin nodded gratefully, keeping close to the older man's side as he was led from his room. He was going to get better.


	14. Chapter 14

**Sky News: Sunday October 12 2008**

_Vampire Boy to Face Court_

_Behind the scenes legal wrangling has been at fever pitch in an attempt to get the so-called "vampire boy" before a court. The defence submitted that the then 13-year-old was unfit to stand trial in April this year._

_However this was rejected and tomorrow the boy, charged with the murder of South Wales grandmother, Enid Clarke, will appear before Cardiff Crown Court. He will plead guilty to manslaughter through diminished responsibility._

* * *

**The Daily Express: Monday October 13 2008**

_Blood is thicker than water_

_The schoolboy killer known to the public as the "vampire boy" appeared at Cardiff Crown Court today charged with the vicious murder of Stokely pensioner, Enid Clarke, 82._

_The 14-year-old, who cannot be named for legal reasons, was excused from sitting in the dock and was instead flanked by lawyers and escorts from his secure unit in benches before the judge._

_Described by police as "grotesque" the crime shocked the country, not least because the baby-faced perpetrator was still a child. It is believed that the boy has a history of erratic and dangerous behaviour. During his time on remand psychiatrists have diagnosed him as suffering from paranoid schizophrenia, but maintained that he was fit to stand trial._

_Wearing a black suit and tie the boy scoured the public gallery for his family, breaking down in tears when his elder brother gave him a thumbs-up sign. The teenager's family have vowed to stand by him, his parents telling the press: "He is still our son. Right now he needs help more than punishment."_

* * *

**BBC News: Monday October 13 2008**

_Vampire Boy 'Obsessed'_

_Today it was revealed that the so called "vampire boy" had exhibited an abnormal interest in the occult for a number of years._

_The boy, who cannot be named for legal reasons, is accused of the brutal stabbing and mutilation of pensioner, Enid Clarke, in March this year. Suspicion fell upon the then 13-year-old following a witness description of a "gothic" youth seen near Mrs. Clarke's home around the time of the attack. The same witness was later able to pick the boy out from a digital identity parade._

_Having exhibited increasingly erratic behaviour since the night in question, the teenager finally confessed to officers following a failed suicide attempt._

_Classmates claim that the boy, who has no previous convictions, had boasted on numerous occasions of knowing "everything there is to know" about vampires._

_Hundreds of books, magazines, and DVDs relating to the undead were recovered from the teenager's bedroom at his home in Stokely, South Wales. Prosecuting barrister Terence Philips, QC, told the jury that the youth was clearly "obsessed" with vampires, and saw the ritual killing of Mrs. Clarke as his chance to obtain immortality._

_Michael Syminks, for the defence, told the court that the attack was not the act of a mentally sound individual, and asked the jury to take the boy's psychiatric assessments into consideration._

_The trial continues._

* * *

**The Sun: Tuesday 14 October 2008**

_Vampire Boy Begged to be Bitten_

_The unnamed teenager accused of the "grotesque" and macabre murder of Enid Clarke, 82, fantasised of being bitten by a vampire a court heard today._

_Excerpts of a diary belonging to the 14-year-old, recovered from his home in Stokely, South Wales, were read aloud at Cardiff Crown Court. Pale and tearful, the boy kept his head down as the damning passages became public knowledge._

"_I have met a vampire, a real life vampire. This is the most awesome day of my entire life. I asked him to bite me but he said no. I think he's just waiting for the right moment," read one. Another chillingly stated: "If I was a vampire people wouldn't be so horrible to me. They wouldn't dare."_

_They were described by Michael Syminks, QC, defending, as "evidence of the defendant's delusional frame of mind". The boy's "obsession" with vampires was dismissed as a phase by his parents and schoolteachers at the time the diary entries were written. It would now seem however that it was a symptom of mental illness; the boy was diagnosed as suffering from paranoid schizophrenia during his time on remand._

_The trial continues._

* * *

**The Stokely Chronicle: Tuesday 14 October 2008**

_Vampire Boy 'Victim' Too_

_Cardiff Crown Court heard today that the Stokely teenager branded "vampire boy" was subject to years of torment at the hands of bullies. Teachers at his primary school, the name of which cannot be printed in order to protect the boy's anonymity, were forced to intervene time and again defence barrister Michael Syminks, QC, told the court._

_The school's head teacher said: "We were very much aware of the difficulties the defendant faced throughout his time with us. However I believe all incidents were dealt with in an appropriate and professional manner. We are a caring school and I do not concede that his experiences here could have played a major role in this tragedy."_

_Syminks disagreed, describing how the defendant was verbally abused, locked in a stationary cupboard and even pushed from a climbing frame, resulting in a broken arm, by other children. Still, the real problems, Philips claimed, began when the teenager made the move to a local comprehensive._

_Singled out for his unusual interests and defensive demeanour, it wasn't long before the bullying began again. The school made attempts to help the boy integrate, encouraging him to join the school chess club and get involved in art projects. Classmates remained hostile however, and teachers say the youngster retreated into a "fantasy world" of aliens, monsters and vampires as a coping mechanism._

_Even after the defendant did finally form a close friendship with a boy new to the area, an outsider like himself, the bullying did not stop. The court heard that, when in early March his friend told him he and his family would be returning to their home country of Romania, the boy's fear of being left "alone" led to a rapid decline in his mental health._

_It was on the eve of their departure that the teenager let himself into Enid Clarke's home and stabbed her to death with a "bladed weapon"; it has never been recovered by police. He believed, claim the defence, that by removing the grandmother's heart and drinking her blood, he would become a "powerful" vampire._

_The defence called a former classmate of the boy as a witness to the alleged bullying. The 15-year-old, who was permanently excluded from the school in June for undisclosed reasons, gave evidence via a video link._

_When asked whether he had personally bullied the boy he said: "Everyone picked on him, we all thought they [the defendant and his friend] were weirdoes. Even some of the teachers thought so, you could tell." He went on: "I think it did have a big impact on him, on his mind I mean. For us it was only a laugh but now I wish I hadn't done it."_

_Mrs. Price, mother of a boy who died following an altercation with the defendant, said: "They are trying to say that he killed someone because my son called him a few names. It's ridiculous."_

_A verdict is expected to be delivered tomorrow._

* * *

**The Daily Mail: Wednesday 15 October 2008**

_Mad or Bad?_

_This is the question the jury at Cardiff Crown Court have been asked to decide upon. Over the last few days Michael Syminks, QC, defending, has done his best to convince them that the "vampire boy" is mentally ill._

_Having hacked an old lady to death, and then drinking her blood from a non-stick pan, it would seem their verdict is a foregone conclusion. Syminks said yesterday: "The prospect of losing his only close friend played on the defendant's mind. He came to believe that by murdering Mrs. Clarke he could literally become a vampire, a creature he perceived to be powerful and without need of friends. This was an attractive proposition for a lonely and socially inept boy, the victim of constant and targeted bullying throughout his school career."_

_If found to be unstable the 14-year-old will have his murder charge reduced to manslaughter on grounds of diminished responsibility._

_Is British justice a soft touch? Have your say on our message boards._

* * *

**The Western Mail: Wednesday 15 2008**

_Vampire Boy detained under Mental Health Act_

_A 14-year-old boy who killed a pensioner and then drank her blood has been committed under the Mental Health Act today._

_Stokely and District Police launched a murder investigation following the discovery of Mrs. Clarke's body in March this year. Within weeks the teenager, whose anonymity is to be preserved, had confessed to the savage crime._

_Appearing before Stokely Youth Court the boy was described as "very wicked" and remanded into secure local authority accommodation. Whilst there he was assessed by a number of specialist child psychiatrists. It was their reports which led the court to today's decision._

_Found guilty of voluntary manslaughter through diminished responsibility the judge Mr. Justice Nathan West ordered that the boy be detained indefinitely at a secure psychiatric clinic. He told the teenager: "This is obviously a case where, for the protection of both yourself and the public, you should not be released without careful consideration by the Home Secretary or a mental health tribunal."_

_Defence barrister, Michael Syminks, QC, said: "This is the right decision for everyone concerned."_

* * *

**The Daily Mirror: Thursday 16 October 2008**

_Vampire Boy sentence a 'joke'_

_Yesterday Judge Mr. Justice Nathan West ordered the infamous "Vampire Boy" be detained at a specialist psychiatric clinic. Stipulating no minimum tariff the judge's sole recommendation was that he be held until he is "no longer a danger". This means the schoolboy killer could be released back into the community in time to sit his GCSEs._

_Carol Clarke, the daughter of his victim Enid Clarke, told the press: "The sentence is laughable, a joke. They say that he is ill, but he knew exactly what he was doing. He is cunning and manipulative and should be in prison. This has devastated my family. My son, Will, could not even bear to attend his grandmother's funeral. It has torn us apart."_

_The fourteen-year-old, whose anonymity is protected by court injunction, launched a frenzied attack on the grandmother in March this year. He stabbed her sixteen times before carving out her heart and drinking her blood. Her heart has never been recovered and police fear that the youth may have EATEN it._

_Over the next week the teenager, then just THIRTEEN, did his best to cover his tracks. He disposed of the clothing he was wearing the night of the attack and played the victim after contriving to 'find' the corpse. Guilt eventually got the better of the boy and he confessed to police on April 5._

_This is just the latest example of soft sentences for juvenile murderers. Check out our special feature on killer kids._

* * *

**The Guardian: Friday 17 October 2008**

_Teenage 'fantasist' needs help not punishment_

_The so-called "vampire boy" has dominated the tabloid press this week; scarcely a front page has escaped unscathed by poor vampire puns and panic mongering headlines. What seems to have been forgotten is that, behind the media sensationalism is a real life child._

_Yesterday the Daily Mail slammed Mr. Justice Nathan West for refusing to lift the court injunction protecting the fourteen-year-old's anonymity. They claim the case is in the "public interest" and that their readers have the right to know the boys true identity. It takes little more than a quick glance at the Mail's message boards to prove Mr. West's decision was the right one._

_Riddled with threats and expressions of disgust a typical comment reads: "The fact that poor Enid is dead and this ******* is still breathing is a crime in itself. They say that naming him would be a breach of his human rights. He gave those up when he committed murder. He should take what's coming to him."_

_Whilst the teenager's crime was undeniably horrific, what could possibly be achieved by "naming and shaming" him? Many of the papers have played down the severity of the boy's mental ill-health, preferring instead to imply that he is simply "evil"._

_Reports from the boy's secure unit suggest that far from a cunning "monster" he has in fact shown nothing but total remorse for his crime. They go on to describe how the youth is "terrified" of spiders and is a talented artist, his work being displayed in the unit foyer. He has exhibited no violent behaviour, nor attacked any of his fellow inmates as has previously been claimed._

_His mother has been vilified for standing by her son, when she should be commended. Struggling to deal with the ramifications of his crime, and the reality of his disturbed mental state the boy needs intensive psychiatric care if he is ever to function normally in the wider community._

_It can only be hoped that the Court of Appeal upholds the judge's ruling and allows this care to take place away from the glare of the media spotlight._


	15. Chapter 15

_I've tidied up the formatting of this, and revised most chapters. Some have bit the dust completely. I've been saying I'll finish this off for years now, so figured I would actually get on with it. This is mostly a teaser, expect a chapter about once a week. :)_

* * *

**Whackeddotcom, Friday 13****th**** May 2011.**

**Top 10 Weird Murders Guaranteed To Keep You Awake At Night **

**#4. Eric van Helsing**

What's even creepier than your blood drained dead body disappearing into thin air? Your blood drained dead body lying in the middle of the school playing fields, waiting to traumatise your former pupils.

Eric van Helsing was a woodwork teacher at the imaginatively named Stokely Grammar School in the town of Stokely, UK. When he failed to turn up for work one morning in February 2009 nobody thought anything of it, presumably understanding the soul destroying nature of the profession. At least they didn't until the school's junior rugby squad stumbled across the body. Literally.

That's right, some poor kid got nose to nose with the corpse of their teacher. Just think of the therapy bills.

Shit really began to get creepy when the coroner arrived on scene and couldn't believe what they were seeing. Van Helsing appeared to be drained of blood, though the body showed no obvious signs of violence. The subsequent post mortem failed to shed any light on the matter. His heart was healthy, and the toxicology report ruled out drugs and poison. In fact, the only mark they found were two small puncture wounds on the side of the neck.

You or I when faced with this evidence would probably yell, "Holy shit, vampire!", but not so the Stokely and District Police Department. They announced to the press that the wounds were made by a trocar, and they were looking for a crazy embalmer who was seeking revenge on woodwork teachers everywhere. Or, you know, words to that effect.

Residents of Stokely were less convinced, and hysteria swept across the area when a similarly bloodless corpse turned up in local woodland three weeks later. This time the victim was 24-year-old shop worker, Caroline Darner. Despite a nationwide manhunt, involving interviewing anyone who seemed a bit odd, nobody was ever charged with either murder.

What makes this story really weird is that the year before Stokely was at the center of another vampire murder. In 2008 a 13-year-old boy confessed to butchering octogenarian Enid Clarke to death, before hacking out her heart and eating it in the belief the act would make him immortal. He was found guilty and packed off to a specialist psychiatric unit, although never wavered from his initial statement: he had no recollection of committing the crime...

* * *

**WeirdNewsdotcom.**

**February 26th, 2012.**

Commuters in Aberteilo, South Wales (UK), got the shock of their life on Wednesday morning. Laying in the bus shelter was the body of local man, Andrew Davis. Davis, an 18-year-old apprentice plumber, had been missing for three weeks though doctors placed his time of death as the early hours of that morning.

His throat had been ripped open, though there was no sign of blood. He had literally been sucked dry.

The night before there were reports of strange lights in the sky, and police received calls about sightings of unknown men in military camouflage.

If that isn't weird enough for you, the death has local precedent. In 2009 Eric van Helsing and Caroline Darner were discovered drained of blood in the nearby town of Stokely. Ironically, the unfortunate commuters who discovered Davis' body had been waiting for the Stokely Circular service.

Vampires, aliens, something else entirely? Over to you.

* * *

**bescareddotcodotuk**

**-Forums**

**-+-Conspiracy Theories**

**Posted by: Triple6x - 26-07-2013 - 11:18**

**Post Subject: Stokely Vampire Murders**

Everyone here should know about these, but just in case -

(Link to BBC News)

Strictly speaking, they are the unsolved murders of schoolteacher Eric van Helsing, and shop assistant Caroline Darner, who were both found drained of blood in 2009. But there are two similar murders which you don't hear about so much.

The first is the murder of 82-year-old Enid Clarke in 2007. This murder was much messier than the two above, and involved the removal of her heart from her chest. A 14 year old boy was found guilty in 2008, and is still in a psychiatric unit. There is a court injunction on revealing his name, but it's easy enough to find out. It's [_edited by moderator, 27-07-2013 08:19_] and his family now live in North Wales. Van Helsing was actually a suspect for a while, and [_the boy_] was one of his pupils.

The other is the murder of Andrew Davies in 2012. His body was found in Aberteilo, which is only about 20 miles from Stokely. His throat was ripped out but the body was drained of blood the same as Darner and van Helsing. What's really wierd is that Davies was in the same class at school, and they were both involved in the death of another boy.

(Link to Stokely Chronicle)

I'm not saying there was definately a cover up, but there must be more to the story. Why can't they find the killer? Why won't they release the kid's name? Why didn't they reopen the Clarke case?

What do you guys think?

–

**Newling - 26-07-2013 - 23:27**

Okay, having nightmares right now. o.o

–

**springheeledjack - 26-07-2013 - 23:49**

The Stokely cases were extremely odd, in my opinion. The police just seemed to be clutching at straws, and the story disappeared from the media unnaturally quickly. They should have reopened the Clarke case at the very least.

–

**Sorger89 - 27-07-2013 - 00:03**

I don't think posting his real name is a good idea, not when the court injunction is still in place. I've notified a mod.

–

**springheeledjack - 27-07-2013 - 00:08**

Quote: _I don't think posting his real name is a good idea, not when the court injunction is still in place. I've notified a mod._

Whatever happened to free speech?

–

**Sorger89 - 27-07-2013 - 00:10**

Quote: _Quote: I don't think posting his real name is a good idea, not when the court injunction is still in place. I've notified a mod._

_Whatever happened to free speech?_

Better safe than sorry.

–

**Hemmanuel - 27-07-2013 - 00:15**

This case creeped me out no end. My cousins live in Stokely, and went to the same school (Stokely Grammar School). They said that people were scared to go out at night after it happened, and I heard that another girl was brought to hospital with the marks on her neck, and had to have three blood transfusions.

There is a good chapter on the Clarke case in Ed Benson's book, 'Killer Kids: Slaying and Society'. Benson refers to the kid as 'Robbie Walsh', which kind of makes sense reading his real name.

...

...

**SkepticMan - 05-08-2013 - 21:38**

This is just another case of people seeing what they want to.

1. Why can't they find the killer?

Er, because the British police are inept? There are about 600 unsolved murders in the UK, it really isn't that unusual.

2. Why won't they release the kid's name?

The answer to this should be obvious. This story was huge when it broke, and just about anybody who posted on the Daily Mail message boards would have happily snapped his neck if they could have got hold of him. Plus you have to remember he had three siblings still living in the same house. Naming him would have just been incredibly stupid all round.

3. Why didn't they reopen the Clarke case?

May I refer you to my answer to #1.

The links between the murders aren't really that surprising. It took place in Stokely, a little Valleys town. It's not like it's hard to be know people. Hell, half of them are probably interbred anyway.

...

...

**PeterPotter - 29-08-2018 - 22:12**

Sorry for posting to an ancient thread, but what do you think about the latest news?

"The so called 'Vampire Boy' of Stokely is to be released on licence. Convicted in 2008 of the murder of grandmother Enid Clarke, the boy has since been held at Ardenleigh secure adolescent mental health unit in Birmingham, Arnold Lodge in Leicester, and an unnamed low security unit.

The boy, who was described at his original trial as 'very wicked', is now aged 24 and will be given a new identity. Although the court injunction against printing his real name is still in place, it is easily found on internet forums and message boards, and the court agreed that to refuse him a new identity would put him at an 'unacceptable' level of risk.

Mental health professionals and case workers told the parole board that the man had been a model patient, and that they had every hope he would integrate well back into society. The parole board agreed that he posed no danger to the public.

Neighbours of Enid Clarke have been quick to denounce the parole board's decision. Arthur Jenkins, Mrs. Clarke's former next door neighbour, told the BBC:

'They say he has been rehabilitated but I don't believe them. Anyone capable of the things he done should be locked up for life, as far as I'm concerned.'"

(Link to BBC News)


	16. Chapter 16

"What are you reading?" Becky asked, prying, and Damien snapped the laptop shut. The last thing he needed was another round of ribbing about how he was trying to live up to his first name again. Aloud he said,

"It's none of your business."

"Sor-ry," Beck enunciated, not sounding sorry at all. Damien scowled and steadfastly avoided eye contact until she had extracted what she had come for from the wardrobe, and then made herself scarce. That was how much his life sucked right now: not only was he stuck in Liverpool, miles away from his friends, he was having to sleep in Becky's old bedroom, crammed floor to ceiling with her childhood toys and old clothing.

His dad had said that it would be for the best, and that it wouldn't be forever. His mum had said that it was his own fault, and that he shouldn't have got himself expelled in the first place. It wasn't as if he had set out to do it. The fight had simply got out of hand, and afterwards he couldn't keep his temper to himself. Not even after he had received the written warnings.

He had been all set to transfer to Hindley High, even though his friends had all assured him he would get his head kicked in, if he wasn't knifed by break time. His mum wouldn't hear of it, acting all concerned like she hadn't when she'd run off with Geoff the car sales man, and before he knew it he was being enrolled at Garside Grange, whose 'dedicated caring staff ensure every child reaches their full potential'. The uniform cost almost as much as the fees, and his mum still talked about it like it was a miracle, which he could only put down to the fact it had succeeded in getting _Becky _a place at a red brick university.

"You've got an early start in the morning," his mum's voice sounded through the door at that point, "don't you think it's about time you got some sleep?"

Reluctantly he lowered the laptop to the floor. Here went nothing.

* * *

"Is it really essential," Bertrand began, though he must have known it was hopeless, "that I am absent from Council?"

Vlad arched an eyebrow and Bertrand, to his credit, held his ground. Vlad sighed and shifted back in his chair.

"You know how the situation is. Wolfie is at risk; he needs constant protection."

He and his half-brother weren't close, but he wouldn't allow anything to happen to him. The threats were likely unfounded, but he wasn't willing to risk it. His father was at Garside, of course, but he hadn't been trained to protect, not like Bertrand, and besides Vlad had one too many scars from his father's belief in letting children learn their own lessons.

Bertrand wasn't giving up easily,

"But surely Ingrid -"

"Ingrid wouldn't be suitable. She is too," Vlad hesitated, "unstable."

He didn't need to explain further, he knew. Though they had never spoken of it, he was sure Bertrand knew. Bertrand made it his business to uncover the secrets you desperately wanted to keep hidden. The idea made Vlad want to squirm, uncomfortable, and he filled the silence rather than have Bertrand do it for him.

"It's not a punishment, you know."

Bertrand had already spent a year teaching at Garside Grange, after resurrecting Sethius for a second time in an effort to kill him. The Count had needled him for days, telling him that he should dust the man for his treachery and be done with it. Erin had begged him to send Bertrand away, confessing that she was frightened of him. In the end he had made Bertrand cover Mrs. Wickham's maternity leave, because he considered Bertrand a friend, and his last close friend had also tried to kill him on numerous occasions, but he hadn't held it against him. He went on,

"You're the only one I can trust with this."

There was an unnecessary sigh – the sound of victory.

"Can it at least be recorded that I am only consenting under duress? I do have a reputation to maintain."

Vlad saluted, mock seriously, and smiled genuinely for the first time in days.

* * *

"Dad?" Paul tried, though there was no sign the man had heard him. Chloe had been good at this, when she was still living at home; he just felt useless. "Are you okay?"

Mr. Branagh turned to look at him at that, dragging his gaze from the rain spattering against the darkened window. "I don't know," he answered honestly. "Do you think he's going to cope?"

Paul shrugged rather than tell the truth, and sat heavily in the free chair beside him. For all the fancy words they had said to the board, Paul privately doubted that any of the staff working with Robin had high hopes for him integrating, either. Even the solicitors had seemed unable to completely hide their surprise at the verdict.

It wasn't that Robin was dangerous, because he wasn't, at least not to the public. It was that the anti-psychotics made him shake and stare blankly at the wall, or else they couldn't control the paranoia, and he didn't need to have letters after his name to work out that Robin was terrified of somebody recognising him.

"Your mother would have wanted him to come home," Mr. Branagh said, tone carefully void of emotion, and Paul averted his gaze, taking his own turn at staring out of the window. It was true, of course. His mam had never given up hope that Robin was going to get his medication balanced out, and would be able to come home and live normally.

Robin hadn't even suggested it, and the reason was obvious though none of them wanted to face it. They all blamed him to some degree, though most of them didn't mean to, and his mam wouldn't have wanted it, because it had been her health, and her body, and she could have gone to the doctor's at any point before it became terminal.

The staff said it would be better, anyway, as he had to learn to be independent, and the police said that it would be too difficult, to maintain anonymity. It still made him feel guilty, and that had been the only reason he had responded to the letter he had sitting hidden in his bedroom dresser.

The man had written to Paul before, outlying the same basic case, though the evidence had grown increasingly convincing. His now ex-wife had laughed it off, and said the man was obviously a nut-job.

"Well, I'm off to bed," he said suddenly, abrupt with false cheer. Upstairs he read through the contents of the envelope again, and double checked the directions to their agreed meeting place. It couldn't hurt, he assured himself for what felt like the millionth time, and it could make all the difference.

* * *

Kurt didn't bother looking up; he recognised the footsteps.

"I suppose you're happy now," Anderton drawled, pouring himself a coffee from the percolator on the sideboard. "What's next on your list? Getting him in to restore his memories?"

Kurt pointedly kept his concentration on the report in front of him, and not on Charles Anderton's baiting. The man was just as insufferable as he had ever been, in spite of being demoted in the recent shake up of Guild resources. It was difficult to justify consistent levels of spending from Europe's governments when the vampires intimated they wanted peace – regardless of the physical evidence – and the economy was still so precarious.

In truth, he had a lot of sympathy for the argument that the Branagh kid should be given his memories back. They had the means, and the appropriate counselling facilities. He had worked with the van Helsings personally, and they were now amongst the Guild's most respected diplomats. But, by the same sentiment, he understood that the path wouldn't be so smooth for Robin.

He had visited the boy, when he was still at Arnold Lodge, and for only the second time in his career he had been willing to accept that reinstating his memories would only worsen the patient's quality of life. The staff couldn't be fully briefed, and they were struggling to find a workable balance of medication. The kid had been like a zombie, staring through rather than at him, and he had used his years of undercover experience to visit the family as though he had never regained his own memories, and watched helplessly as they tore themselves further apart.

Finally reaching the end of the document, he turned his attention to Anderton. "I suppose you would have preferred he stay locked up forever; out of sight, out of mind."

"You said yourself that should His Grandess," Kurt could practically _see_ the intended air quotes, "ever discover the truth, the results would be disastrous. The kid was no threat at the unit."

Kurt wanted to shout the other man down, to ask him to imagine Branagh was his own brother, his own son even. Instead he grit his teeth, and shoved down the urge, the way they taught you at basic training,

"If they were concerned," he said, matter of factly, "the treaty would have failed long ago."

* * *

The only sound was the too distant thrum of traffic and the crunch of regulation boots against the gravelled driveway. PC Brown wasn't ashamed to admit he was scared. Anybody in his right mind would be.

The call had crackled in on a nice quiet shift, and PC Keller had answered before he had chance to explain why, sometimes, it was better to just pretend you hadn't heard the radio. Keller was new to the force, newer still to Stokely, and if he had any sense he wouldn't hang around long enough to work out why they had so many unfilled vacancies.

"I can't see any lights now," Keller chose that moment to tell him, shining the torch over the neglected walls of Stokely Castle. "It was probably just kids messing around, still we'd better take a look inside."

Brown bit his tongue, and followed Keller's lead. He had been the same once, thought the jumbled stories the teenagers and the pensioners told him were a load of codswallop, induced by drink and drugs and the onset of dementia. Now he knew better, and only stepped over the threshold with trepidation.

The place had been grand once; he had secretly marvelled at the expensive furniture and the seamless restoration work when he had been involved in the arrest of Fred Mercer. Now it was dirty and damp, and the floor was covered in tatty sheets of cardboard and drug paraphernalia. They had found more than one lifeless body of poor sods with nowhere else to go since the last occupants had returned to Romania.

Lately, even the homeless kept their distance from the place. It might be dry, but it had far worse threats than the cold and the wet lurking in its many shadows.

"Look at this!" Keller yelled from a small room leading off the main hall. Brown approached with a feeling of dread. It was empty but for a crib in the middle of the room. It looked eerily out of place, too clean amongst the surrounding grime and rubbish. A doll sat staring at them through the wooden bars, it's eyes dark and unsettling, and a crack running across one porcelain cheek.

"I think we -" Brown began, because he really wasn't paid enough to star in the kind of thing he normally only saw on the screens at Stokely cinema. It was too late. Keller was making strange noises, like he was trying to speak but couldn't get the breath, and the ray of the flashlight shook as it moved upwards, inexorably, until they were suddenly staring into an unnaturally pale face.

For a moment he was frozen to the spot, fear overwhelming, and then he was dragging Keller by the arm, scarcely noticing as Keller dropped the flashlight to the floor.

"Move!"


	17. Chapter 17

"Idiots," Ingrid sneered, picking up the abandoned flashlight and switching it off.

"Do you want me to go after them?" Ryan asked, earnest though every vampire in the world knew that to kill a breather was to incite the Grand High Vampire's wrath. Ingrid simply shook her head, exasperated,

"We don't have time to waste."

* * *

He was woken up, early, and made to get out of bed. A start which didn't bode well, in Damien's opinion. His dad had been content to let him make his own arrangements for school in the morning. His mother had completely different ideas.

"It's the number 15 to the High Street," she reminded, as he dutifully ate the toast she had placed in front of him. "We showed you the stop when you went for the induction. It's right outside the school, you can't miss it."

Damien was still smarting from the mollycoddling when he reached the bus shelter. There was another boy, a little younger, wearing a different school uniform, and an old woman who was wearing a headscarf like she had stepped straight out of the 1970s. He shifted from foot to foot restlessly, checked his email, and stood back as more people joined them.

He hung back a little when the bus pulled in, searching his pockets for his newly issued bus pass, and ended up behind two men who were obviously travelling together. The older waited for the younger, whose hands shook so badly when he tried to drop his change into the machine that it scattered all over the floor.

It was a little awkward, but he didn't help, and the older man collected it together and took the ticket, before steering the other to a seat with a hand on his shoulder.

Back home, he had his friends would have howled with laughter because the situation was obvious. Laney Rogers' carer had called the police on them once, and yelled at them that they were heartless vermin, especially _him_, and that they ought to show some consideration. Here he felt alone and unsure of himself, and settled for simply watching the pair after dropping into the seat directly behind them.

The man had dark hair and his jumper was too big, but he didn't have anything obviously wrong with him, not like some people. Damien noticed after a few minutes that his hands kept twitching. He kept up the observation all through the journey, even as the bus stopped again and again for old people and young mothers with pushchairs, because it was more interesting than the scenery, and when they reached his stop he tried to look the man full in the face, but he turned away and stared pointedly out of the window.

* * *

"He was staring at me," Robin managed once they were off the bus, his breath coming in too short bursts. His forehead was damp with perspiration, and he was shaking under the hand on his shoulder.

Martin had both of them sit on the nearest bench, recognising the symptoms as the onset of a panic attack. "Breathe," he instructed, in the calm tone he had perfected over the years, "in – out. That's it."

He had known Robin forever, or so it sometimes seemed. Robin had been thirteen the first time he had worked with him, back at Hillside Secure Unit. He had made real progress with him there, when no one else could, and years later when he'd felt he would go mad himself if he continued to watch the system fail kid after kid, he had retrained, and encountered Robin again in the world of adult mental health services.

As much as he wanted more than anything for Robin to make the most of his newfound freedom, he had worked with enough disturbed teenage offenders to know that he had his work cut out for him. Robin was better than he had been, back when he had gone to visit him at Ardenleigh to see little more than a shell, but he was still avoidant and maladjusted, and if they couldn't make progress with getting out to the shopping centre, there was no hope for things like finding a job and building relationships.

Robin's breathing was still erratic, and just when Martin thought they had turned a corner a well meaning woman made her way over, offering her assistance and Robin was on his feet in an instant,

"I can't do it. I can't!"

He had no choice but to get them both back to the halfway house and make tea while Robin washed his hands over and over again in the tiny washbasin in his bedroom. It was just a setback he told himself firmly, not a precedent.

* * *

Paul swirled the dregs around his coffee cup. Perhaps he wasn't coming; perhaps it had all been a set up. He checked his phone again, and then his watch, and was just about to get up and leave when he saw a familiar figure walk through the glass door of the coffee shop.

Even after all these years the man's features were easily recognisable – Detective Inspector Gethin Turner. He had been in charge of Robin's case and, later, the deaths of Mr van Helsing, and that girl from CostCutters Ryan Haskell had lost his virginity to. He had been a suspect for both of them, because if Robin was a killer, then surely he must have his own interests in committing a spot of murder.

The lingering bitterness surprised him, and when Gethin sat opposite him, slightly out of breath, and said a sincere,

"Thanks for agreeing to see me."

Paul found himself saying, "It's okay, sorry I didn't answer you sooner."

Gethin shrugged. "I can't blame you. If I was you, I'd have thought I was some nutter too." It was too close to the truth, and Paul offered to get a round of coffees to avoid any uncomfortable confessions.

Once settled, Gethin spread the files he had brought with him across the small table. "Your brother's case was one of the strangest I've ever worked on. There was nothing to prove he had been at the scene, beyond his own confession, and anything we found was dismissed because you had both found her there the following morning. I interviewed him myself and his story was so full of holes I was 100% certain there would be no conviction. And, yet, the jury all came down in our favour."

Paul nodded, and waited for the other man to continue, uncertain where he was going with the tale.

"Your mother came to see me not long before she died," Gethin went on, gaze a little too intent. "She told me that she had found bloodstained clothes under your brother's bed, and she had burnt them in an attempt to protect him."

He hadn't known it, but somehow the news didn't surprise him. It sounded exactly the sort of thing their mam would do to keep them out of trouble. She had stood by Robin, even when they had bricks put through their windows, and at the end, when she had been out of it with the pain and the drugs, she had repeated over and over again that Robin hadn't done it, and that _they _were flying in the night, trying to find her. The raving had scared Chloe so much she had had to sit in the visitor's room, waiting for the confirmation.

"So," Gethin shrugged again, obviously a habit, "I figured that was that; it was conclusive"

"Then why did you say you think he's innocent?" Paul gestured at the envelope Turner had sent him, confused.

Gethin looked about them, like he was checking for something. Seemingly satisfied, he said, "Two years later I was called out to a murder scene in Aberteilo."

"Andrew Davis," Paul elaborated. "He worked for the same firm as me."

Gethin smiled mirthlessly, "You were our first suspect." In seriousness he went on, "We never told the press about the other marks on the body. They were brands, about two inches in diameter, in the shape of some symbol." He pushed a photo over to Paul, who felt the colour draining from his face. Dead bodies really weren't his thing. "I knew I'd seen it before, I just couldn't work out where. Then it came to me – it was on the knife we took from your brother's bedroom. The one -"

"He tried to kill himself with," Paul finished for him, thoughts flying all over the place.

Gethin nodded, and they ordered more coffee, pouring over the files for hours as Paul told the man everything he could remember about the Count family. It was late afternoon by the time they called it a day, and Paul replayed every detail in his mind as he drove home. Gethin had left the police rather than be pushed, was, by his own admission, obsessed with the case. But there had to be something in it.

Perhaps his mam had been right, after all.

* * *

Za'ir moved about the chamber, laying out the agendas and the refreshments. It wasn't the sparkling career his mother had envisaged, but she was happy enough, what with its proximity to the Chosen One, and all the prospects for advancement that came with it.

If he were honest, he rather liked the role of minutes' secretary. You were privy to all the Council's secrets, without having any of the responsibility. He didn't know how Vlad coped with it, especially not when he remembered how Vlad had used to be. He could still see the look of naive disbelief on Vlad's face when his bodyguard had held a stake to his chest.

Madame Dabrowski had been too quick for him, revealing how she had earned her reputation as man's worst enemy (not the way they had all giggled about after lights out), and Vlad had disappeared overnight to lay low until he could get his reflection to stick to him.

Za'ir sniffed at the bottled blood to gauge the vintage, a skill his own grandmother had taught him. She had laced a bottle with arsenic once, in an attempt to kill him, but at least she didn't hate him enough to hire an assassin to do the job for her.

Satisfied everything was perfect, Za'ir completed the last of the chores: setting out the parchment, quills and ink with which to take the draft minutes. He hesitated for a moment before laying out double the usual amount. It was going to be a long meeting tonight, no question about it. The Elders weren't happy, and the Warlocks had been threatening the life of Vlad's brother. In some ways Za'ir thought that Vlad invited it.

Slayers were alright in their proper place – begging at your feet for mercy – but it was no good trying to set up home together. You had a fundamental conflict of interests. Vlad, he often thought, would have been better off demanding the hand of that Trans-Siberian yokel he had been so keen on back at the Academy.

If nothing else, it would have put an end to the endless badly spelt letters from the province complaining that they were unwanted and forgotten about. The weekly bonfire was _so_ tedious.

* * *

"How was it?" His mother asked the instant he came through the front door.

Dozens of adjectives sprung to mind. Damien went for "alright" to be done with it.

In fact it had been long, and pointless, and the rest of his class were drips and posers and idiots. There were a few good looking girls though, and one who had gone out of her way to sit next to him, so at least it hadn't been a dead loss.

"What lessons did you have?" She tried again, determined to get something out of him.

"Maths," he said, refusing to go into more detail. "Biology, IT, and History." The last had been taught by a man who seemed to hate being there even more than he did, and his own attempts to imitate his accent for the girl next to him had trailed off almost immediately, though he still couldn't work out why he had so suddenly lost interest in it.

"That's nice," his mum said, based on what evidence he couldn't imagine. "You're going to like it at Garside."

Damien hmmed non-comitally and made a start on his potatoes. If he didn't, he was sure it would be easy enough to get kicked out from there.


	18. Chapter 18

"Council overran, did it?" Erin asked, and Vlad didn't need to answer because he knew she wouldn't believe him. He had tried every way he knew, but no matter what he did Erin couldn't trust him. In his lower moments he suspected that she just didn't want to.

The session had indeed overrun, long tedious arguments that went around and around in circles, and were eventually deferred to the next meeting. Vlad disliked that solution most of all; it meant that the issues would spend yet another week looming over him. Not that the current problem hadn't already been dogging him for years, almost since the moment he was officially crowned before High Council.

Another body had been found branded with the Dracula crest, this time in the Czech Republic, and if they didn't find the culprit soon they'd likely have a diplomatic disaster on their hands. It never ceased to surprise Vlad that the rebels' methods were so unsophisticated. The first case had been in Latvia, and then another, weeks later, in Stokely. When the Council were forced to accept that he hadn't actually grown into his proper role as bloodthirsty vampire leader, suspicion had fallen on his cousin Olga, and then on Ingrid.

Olga had already fallen prey to an unscrupulous boyfriend – the status of vampiresses being yet another legislative minefield – by that point and Ingrid, frankly, wouldn't be so stupid.

"You're not even listening to me!" Erin exclaimed, breaking through the ever present headache. "I don't know why I bother."

"I'm sorry," he tried, because he didn't have a better offer, and Erin just shook her head, frustration radiating.

"Maybe I shouldn't."

Vlad frowned, because it had been a long night and he didn't have the energy to work out another riddle. "Shouldn't what?" Erin glared at him in return, as determined as he'd ever seen her,

"Bother."

With that she slammed out of the rooms they had been sharing and Vlad simply stood there, numb, staring at the doorway for long moments. It had been coming for a long time, longer than either of them were willing to admit to, but he hadn't really believed that it would happen. That they would ever stop living the lie they had built between them.

* * *

Martin was worried about him, he knew. He could tell from the way the older man looked at him when he thought he wasn't watching, and the way he kept dropping into conversation that he was there to listen, should Robin feel like talking to him.

It wasn't even as though he was setting out to be awkward and evasive, he just couldn't help it. The fear had only come on slowly, because they couldn't sort his medication out and he was stuck in his room most of the time, only feeling half alive and not wanting to move anywhere. By the time he felt anything approaching normal the idea of going outside was enough to make him hyperventilate, and instead of celebrating when he heard the parole board's decision, he spent the night staring at the wall and wondering how he was going to cope in the _real world_.

His social worker kept saying she was optimistic, and Paul had said over the phone that he and dad would come visit as soon as he was settled. Chloe had written him a letter, from Australia, which read that she had faith in him, and that maybe one day, when he was allowed, he could come and visit her. He hadn't seen her since they had let him go to his mam's bedside, and he wasn't even sure that he would recognise her. It was that thought he held in his head when he was made to take the bus, or walk to the corner shop and back. It had been too long, nobody would know who he was.

He wasn't Robin Branagh any more. He was Jamie Rymer and he had moved to Liverpool to find work, because the market in Wales was dire; and his accent was muted because he had moved around a lot as a kid, and definitely hadn't been anywhere near Stokely in 2007.

It made sense, sort of, because he barely recognised himself when he looked in the mirror. He didn't feel that old, and the tablets made his eyes look dull, not the inner demons like Ollie Gunnarsson had used to say, before Ardenleigh decided that there was nothing more they could do to help and transferred him. Ollie had heard voices, and swore that Satan was living inside him, and Robin had never known what to say, because the things in his own head hadn't felt like delusions.

"Are you ready for this appointment?" Martin called, rapping on the door, and Robin hesitated for a moment before washing the tablets he was meant to be taking down the sink. It was a stupid idea, probably, but he had always been too closely monitored to get away with it before now.

He had to know, one way or the other, if it really had gone away.

* * *

"You don't need to follow me around!" Wolfie all but yelled, turning around to find that Bertrand was still scarcely ten steps behind him.

"I wasn't following you," Bertrand said in repsonse, with so much sincerity Wolfie even had to double check that it was actually happening. "I was patrolling the corridors, which I am perfectly entitled to do."

"I'm trying to make friends!" Wolfie shot back, wishing that he had been allowed to attend any other school but Garside. Vlad always made out that he understood, whenever he decided to grace them all with his presence, but Wolfie knew that he didn't. If he had any idea what it was like to be stuck with nobody but the Count and Alex (and only one of those he considered a parent) for company, he would never have insisted that Bertrand become his form tutor, and monitor his every move into the bargain.

"You'll thank me," Bertrand said in total confidence. "Eventually."

Wolfie caught himself just in time from stamping his foot, and instead stormed past the older vampire, barely noticing the way he pushed through a group of older boys twice his size. He didn't need to turn around to see the grin on Bertrand's face, it was all there in the satisfied,

"Boys, you were obviously so keen to write an extra thousand words on the Wall Street Crash, you couldn't help yourselves from flaunting the school rules on wandering the building at lunchtimes."

* * *

Paul arranged to meet Gethin again, this time at the house, because his dad would be out until at least 6:00 to see his favourite medium. Chloe had tried to stop him from going to the meetings, but Paul couldn't really see the problem. If listening to middle aged women tell him that their mam was happy and free of pain was what made his dad able to cope with it, Paul was quite content to let him get on with it.

The story he had been told the day before had intrigued him, and he had spent the morning rooting around the attic, digging out pictures of the Counts, including the ones of Robin and his weird little friend Vlad. The more he scoured them, the more he felt there was something just out of his reach. Something important that he couldn't quite remember.

After the pictures he dragged down the possessions of Robin's the police had seen fit to return to them. There were copies of Shock! and Fangoria, and aimless little doodles of bats and hearts and Vlad's older sister, Ingrid. Every boy at school had had a crush on Ingrid.

He piled it all on the kitchen table and waited impatiently for Gethin's arrival. Their agreed meeting time came and went, and Paul found himself biting at his nails, beset with nerves though he wasn't sure why that should be the case. When the clock hit 2 o'clock he tried Gethin's mobile, letting it ring and ring, though it only went through to voicemail.

He tried again at quarter and half past and, finally, at around 3pm his mobile started ringing though it wasn't Gethin's voice which met him.

The police were cagey about why they had made the call, fobbing him off with a string of,

"We're just making enquiries."

His suspicions were confirmed later on the local news website, though the piece was short and the details were still sketchy.

"Man found dead under Yr Hen Bont bridge. Police are appealing for witnesses."

It was Gethin, he was sure of it.

* * *

"I don't believe you," PC Nathan Keller said, because now, moving kids on from loitering around Stokely High Street, the events of the night before just seemed too fantastical. It was nothing but a trick of the light, or else some goth girl hell bent on getting some entertainment out of scaring the local constabulary.

PC Brown didn't laugh like Nathan had expected him to, just another attempt at making a fool of him, like sending him off to buy a tin of tartan paint or a pack of sky hooks.

"Haven't you ever wondered why the crime rate in Stokely is so high?" Brown asked, the two of them back in the squad car by now, polystyrene cups of coffee before them. Nathan shrugged. It was an economically deprived area, with minimal public transport services. The kids all knew they were destined to leave school and claim unemployment benefits, or else move as far away as they could from the area. It wasn't the kind of environment that encouraged community spirit.

Brown set about answering his own question. "It's not just the murders that were in the papers. There was a woman out jogging up by the farm who said a pale man in a _cape_ tried to assault her. And people just disappear. We've got more mispers in Stokely than the rest of the authority combined."

Keller shook his head. It was ridiculous. Brown wouldn't let it drop,

"Then there are the ones that reappear. They wish they hadn't. Mari Jones, the third 'vampire' victim, she had to have three blood transfusions and started acting like an animal. She threw herself off the river bridge in Aberteilo; we never found her body. Mike Richards, he was another. He was found unconscious in the woods, drifted into a coma. When he woke up he was certified stark raving mad and carted off to Cardiff."

"I think you've been spiking that coffee again," Nathan joked, not willing to admit how much his colleague's insistence was unnerving him.

Brown just held his gaze, tone serious. "I'm telling you this for your own good. Around here it's best just to keep your head down, and not to ask too many questions."

* * *

Ryan was glad to be from there. It had become an annual event, spending the night in that cramped little room at Stokely Castle and, though he would gladly do anything for Ingrid, he couldn't help but shudder at the sight of that doll. He had never liked them, not even when Erin had been young and she had sat all her ragdolls against her pillow, to stare at him with their blank button eyes.

"They've found another body," Ingrid said bluntly, focussing his attention. "It will be up to me to flush them out, it always is."

Ryan said nothing. Ingrid was renowned throughout the vampire world as one of the greatest 'diplomats' the Council had ever seen. Diplomat was, of course, a nice term the papers could use to mean she tracked down rebels and saw to it that they never caused problems again. Not always with the Grand High Vampire's approval. It had started as a way to prove herself, though in Ryan's opinion she didn't need to, and after, after things had gone wrong and he had tracked desperately for weeks before finding her, it was a way of unlife and nothing and no one had had any luck in convincing her otherwise.

He started getting their kit together, in an attempt to push the memories of those weeks from his mind, and Ingrid sifted restlessly through her wardrobe, pulling outfits out only to shove them back in again.

"Next year," she said suddenly, unbidden, "I'm going to install a real monument."

Ryan smiled to himself, pleased, and finished Ingrid's sentence under his breath,

"She would have been ten."

* * *

Damien stood behind the door, peering through the gap. Becky's friend had turned up in tears earlier that evening, and Becky had established both of them in the sitting room, like his Xbox 1440 wasn't stranded in there with them.

School had been rubbish, though he had made new friends, and bonded further over just how much of a git their new history teacher was. The two men had been on the bus again, and when the older had glared at him he had smiled back, and he hadn't even meant it facetiously. Maybe he'd tell him one day why he was staring. Then again, maybe he wouldn't. There was plenty of time to make his mind up about it.

He was just debating how much Becky would yell at him if he walked in, the blonde girl started crying again.

"It's really over this time, Becks," she sobbed. "I know it is."

"You don't know that," Becky soothed. "You've argued before." She paused. "Regularly."

"No," the other girl shook her head, swiping unattractively at her face. "I can't live like that any more. We're no good for each other."

Damien sighed and stepped away, retreating back towards his bedroom. He couldn't wait until Becky pushed off back home; when he was old enough to get his own place, he definitely wouldn't be wasting his holidays visiting his parents!


	19. Chapter 19

_Apologies for the wait, life's been a bitch the last few weeks. Anyway, enjoy! :)_

* * *

_**Dead Body Found Under Yr Hen Bont Bridge Identified as Former Police Inspector**_

_North Wales Police today released the identity of a man whose body was found last week under Yr Hen Bont Bridge in Llangefni. _

_Gethin Turner, 42, of no fixed abode, had previously served as a Detective Inspector with Stokely and District Police in South Wales. The then DI Turner was the Chief Investigating Officer working on the infamous Stokely 'Vampire Murders', and those who knew him say the case was the beginning of a descent into a deep depression._

_After leaving the police force in 2014 Turner struggled to find alternative employment, and became a drifter, losing touch with friends and family._

_His mother, Sian Turner, said: "Gethin has been very unhappy for a long time. I hope he has now found peace."_

_Police are not treating the death as suspicious._

* * *

The police, Paul was convinced, were idiots. There was no way Gethin Turner had committed suicide, he'd bet every penny he owned on it. Admittedly their number was a little paltry these days, but that wasn't the principle of the thing.

He had never been one for conspiracy theories or the kind of weirdness that had once so fascinated Robin. The ghosts, and the aliens, and the children with black eyes, who their grandmother told them lived in dark places, and could only go outside at night. But the closer he looked into the things Gethin had told him, the more he read and the more people he spoke to, the more he became convinced that he was onto something big. Something sinister.

Tommo spoke to him willingly, promising not to tell Chloe as the line crackled, with just the faintest hint of an accent. "I never knew Vlad well, we weren't friends or anything. Don't know why everyone thinks I would have been. Kurt Muller, remember him?, he used to ask me about him too. Told him it wouldn't have done Robin much good to see him. Nothing would have."

Andrew Davis' brother, Jacob, who had been in his geography class was more reticent. "Ingrid never did it for me, and it's got nothing to do with batting preferences, so don't give me that look. She was just, I dunno, cold. Used to sit next to her in French, her books all had this weird symbol carved on them. I – don't even know why I'm telling you this. When they found Dew, the sickos had branded him with it. Must have been Satanic or something, not that the coppers had a bloody clue what they were looking for."

The notes piled up and up and up, and Ian frowned at him when they met up in a bar in Cardiff, to watch the rugby, and he couldn't help asking Ian if he remembered Ingrid, and what he had thought of the Count family.

"Alright, bit weird," he got in answer. "Ingrid was fit, I'd have given her one. Ryan Haskell said he saw her in Stokely not last Halloween, but the one before. Haskell's always been full of shit though."

Paul had taken a swallow of his pint, rather than push and raise suspicion, and settled for adding another name to his list of people to contact.

* * *

Life without Vlad was... strange. Not awful, but not all sunshine and roses either. They had been together since they were kids, and it felt weird to just be Erin Noble, rather than one half of a couple.

It didn't help that breaking up with Vlad wasn't a private matter that she could just smile and put a happy face on. It was all over the vampiric press, and the Guild and the Council had agreed that the only way she wasn't going to become someone's hostage, or have her finger bones turned into hideously expensive souvenir charm bracelets (all the rage this year according to _Gothmopolitan_), was to be chaperoned everywhere, 24/7.

Vlad had been apologetic about it when he had told her, but had made no attempt to change her mind about the whole situation. Once she might have made excuses for him, put it down to pride, or stubbornness. Now she accepted it for what it was – indifference.

She frowned and wondered if perhaps she was being a little harsh, even as the bodyguard she had had no say on tried again to strike up conversation.

"I suppose this must be quite novel, being out in daylight."

Erin gave the man a withering look, "I wasn't a prisoner."

"No," he responded, in a tone which suggested she had been, but just hadn't known it. Erin fumed.

"We're at peace. We've all signed a treaty. It would never happened if Vlad was a monster."

The man seemed to sober at that, and they sat in silence on the park bench for long awkward moments, neither looking at the other, until he finally spoke,

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean it. It's just hard to get used to."

Erin shrugged, offered a hint of a smile in forgiveness. He grinned in return, cheeks dimpling in a way that made him look much younger,

"You can call me Charles, you know."

* * *

Robin had felt significantly better. When, exactly, he couldn't remember, but it was habit now to tell himself that he had, and he could feel it again one day. Soon.

Right now he felt terrible, sweating and shaking, and he couldn't tell if the way his heart was hammering in his chest was a normal reaction to paranoia, or a sure sign that he was likely to keel over and die at any given moment.

He really shouldn't be here, not now. Perhaps not ever. But he had wanted to see for himself, and Martin had believed his lie so readily, beaming at him at the thought of him feeling ready to go out alone. Like he was a normal person, a person who hadn't been locked up for murdering somebody.

His thoughts were stumbling over themselves, faster than his pounding pulse, and he pushed his hands through his hair, turning slowly in a full circle. Stokely looked the same. It was grey and wet, and the ornamental fountain in the town square was still covered in weeds and litter.

The rain fell steadily, patter, patter, patter, but Robin scarcely noticed, more focussed on the imposing silhouette of the castle on the hill, and the mundane façade of the nondescript little house he had grown up in. He stared at it longer than was probably normal, gaze fixed on the window of what had once been his bedroom.

For a moment he imagined his mam would open the door and tell him to come inside, because his dinner was ready, but then reality hit, and a young woman with bleach blonde hair opened the door to shove a carrier bag into the bin. She glanced at him, frowning as though recognition was just out of reach, and Robin felt the pull of fear, and realised he had to keep moving.

The graveyard was quiet, tranquil, except for the sounds in his head, but he was getting better at ignoring those. He was in withdrawal, had read it in a pamphlet, and only had to wait until it was out of his system to know if they were real, or induced hallucinations. He scratched at his arm at the thought of it, up and down, raking, because it felt better somehow, though when he finally pulled his hand away his fingernails were streaked red, which made his head spin still more violently.

He found the gravestone eventually. It was simple, tasteful. Chloe had chosen it. He stood for a long moment, touched his fingertips to the cool stone and shut his eyes. Imagined there was some sort of connection. Then he heard footsteps approaching and the panic hit still harder, so that he was running, blindly, panting for breath and desperate.

The train station wasn't far, not really, and he sank into the seat which felt most like an out of the way corner when it pulled in and used his sleeve to wipe at his eyes. He shouldn't have gone, he thought over and over, in time with the chug of the movement.

He wasn't supposed to be here.

* * *

"No talking," Bertrand said without looking up. "Not unless you want an after school detention with me, Damien."

He didn't need to see the boy to know he was scowling. Instilling some healthy fear was one of his few pleasures in unlife, now he was stuck back playing nursemaid to a bunch of hormone addled teenagers.

There had been no attempt on Wolfie, and in spite of all the boy's threats to run away and make him sorry for treating him like a puppy, the threat had yet to be acted upon. Instead his days were filled with marking, and lesson planning, and trying to force some semblance of intelligence into the thick skulls of the little pustules. Or so Mr. Jarvis, who taught R.E. in the classroom next door to him, always put it.

The only forthcoming break in the monotony was the hideous prospect of herding half a dozen classfuls of breather brats to an equally hideous performance of Romeo and Juliet at the local theatre. He had said that all that sentimentality was sickening at the time, and the ensuing centuries had done little to change his opinion. What the children needed was something properly violent and bloodthirsty, not something that only had a half hearted stab at it.

"See me after the lesson, Damien," he called as the sound of murmuring reached his ears, capping his red marker and wondering if there was yet hope for the boy. He smelt the acrid tang of slayer under the still more acrid scent of unwashed teenager. Bertrand shook his head and pushed the instinctual thoughts of bloodshed away.

Vlad had better appreciate the sacrifices he was making.

* * *

Vlad clenched his eyes shut and tried to practice mind over matter. It didn't work, the pain in his head still throbbed, incessantly, and the rest of his body ached in sympathy. His father said it was blood deficiency; Erin, having the whole living and breathing thing going on he so liked, had used to say it was a stress headache. Vlad didn't trust any of his advisors enough to ask them in the first place, bar Bertrand, and telling Bertrand would only result in unwanted mollycoddling. (Though Bertrand, he knew from experience, would deny at dawn he was doing it.)

He shifted in the confines of his coffin, and contemplated getting up. It would be sunset soon, and he had thousands of things he ought to be doing. People to appease, laws to make. Urgent missives to respond to, and rebel show trials to preside over. Still he lay there, unmoving and silent, and willed the pain to go away so he could at least think clearly.

It was getting worse, he was sure of it. Like the headaches he had used to get after trying to meditate with Andrei, only he had never tried very hard then, and they had always gone away after a few hours. He would have to tell someone, someone who _hadn't_ been paid by Granny Westenra to dust him, and get advice the Chamber libraries seemed unable to offer.

"Get up!" A fist thumped down onto his coffin lid, it's owner's tone brokering no arguments. Vlad bit back a groan. Ingrid. The lid was pulled back unceremoniously, and dropped to the floor with a clatter.

Vlad forced himself to sit up, his day cape falling about him. Ryan stood silently behind Ingrid, face grim rather than adoring. Vlad steeled himself.

Ingrid grinned at him, just manic enough to be unnerving.

"We've made a break through."


End file.
